I don’t know about you, but when I think of love, I don’t picture rainbows and confetti. In my thirty-five years of life, I have experienced the kind of love that empties me of myself over and over and over. A love that costs. A love that hurts.
But you know what? I wouldn’t trade it for all the rainbows and confetti in the world.
Sure, I treasure my romantic memories of my heart skipping a beat at the excitement of newfound love. But mostly I think love happens in the mundane. In the slowness. In our everyday living lives. I have come face-to-face with the boldest, clearest expressions of love in some of the most unsuspecting places.
I have experienced it in the eyes of my husband on our wedding day eleven years ago and in the cold, sterile air of the oncology ward as he battled cancer. I have seen the richness of love in my children, some adopted, some from my womb, as they held hands like the siblings they are. I have witnessed hard-fought-for love in the lives of my neighbors in the inner city, whose dignity has been threatened by injustice and addiction. I have seen love in graveyards and cancer wards. Maternity wings and funeral homes. Court rooms and counselor’s offices. Street corners and church pews.
I guess that’s the thing about love: It’s always there. All around us. In each of us. In the broken and the beautiful things of life. Love is both/and. It is the rain and the sun. The sweet and the salty. The rich and the poor. The life and the death.
I believe in love, because love is the final word.