That sticky thing called Love

I used to think that loving someone was a big deal and resulted in a lot of fuzzy, sugary-sweet sensations originating roughly in the midsection. And then people I loved died and I learned that sometimes the fuzzy gets sticky in a distinctly unpleasant way. Not one to shy away from logic, I figured out that if I simply shielded myself from all that heart nonsense, I wouldn't have to hurt. Then Someone-Who-Knows pointed out that a plant can hide under a rock to shield itself from potentially harmful weather, but it will die pretty quick from lack of sunlight.

So I learned that it's okay to love (which always involves some hurt) and that it's always worth it. I even felt fairly confident distributing this precious gem of 'wisdom' to those I could see in a similar position. Despite my willingness to share, it was a self-centered lesson: what I stand to gain or lose in the game of life.

One day I found myself emotionally bruised, exhausted, and heart-weary. I needed nothing more than a kind, loving word - maybe a hug, maybe a patient, listening ear - and it was denied. The ache was so deep that I couldn't really articulate it; I couldn't muster the strength to ask for the walls to be lowered for a few scant minutes so I could rest in the safety of love.

Then I learned the second half of the lesson...or started to learn it.

Refusing to love simply because I fear the cost denies me the experience of a full life (the easy half). But much more significantly than this one-dimensional consequence, a refusal to love denies those around me the greatest gift that can be given in this life. My petty fears deny an opportunity for a Love greater than myself to heal wounds in others, to enliven a downcast spirit, or to encourage a disappointed soul. Instead of looking so steadily at myself and the potential benefits/costs that come with loving without walls, I have glimpsed a much more subtle and grave cost, not to myself, but to those around me.