A Valentine’s Post


We want wrap ourselves up in this word, and for all that it seems a blanket too small. We seek to clothe ourselves in it, yet feel exposed. We try to warm ourselves by its fire, but leave chilled. Like the medieval hunt for the hart, it always seems just beyond our horizon in the disappearing point. Can we pull it from moonbeams? Is it ordered in the stars? Is it carved in youth’s fancy, on tree bark, or into our skin, or born into our minds? Is it pressed into coal, clear and coruscating? We try nostalgia, lover, parent, roses, morning dew, promises, rubies and rings and find them all wanting. We want, we want; we try to pluck it from our own hearts, from films and books and scores and poems with a desperate grasping; we drag it from our lovers’ mouths and from our friends’ embraces.

And yet, and yet, so perfectly offered on the cross, in totality, whole and complete, lacking all wagers and demands, freely given, this rich, rich gift, dearly bought.

Many of the women who come to our doors have embraced a counterfeit love, a barbed lie, a bated hook. We still fight this battle that women must justify their loveable-ness, their quality, their value. How I wish to share with her this undying love, this unchanging love, this un-breaking love, that truly comforts, that truly clothes in strength and in dignity, that truly warms, that does not expire or exhaust, that comes in still small whispers, that is the mightiest in the mightiest, who seeing us dirty, and naked, and abandoned, He covers us with His wing, anoints us with oil, adorns us in gold and in silk.

And we, and we, knowing this, can we love Him less? Does your heart not burst in joy and in sorrow, to be loved so greatly, that loving us cost Him so great a price? Do we not tremble in His presence, not understanding, but perceiving His great love for us? This agape that burns us free from our loneliness and toil, suffering and hate is the only way to be wrapped up in light and in fire and in smoke and in Holy Ghost and in LOVE.