A Musing On Love (Disclaimer, somewhat long winded and rather honest).

It had not really been a hard day. In fact, nothing about the day stands out in my memory as bad, hard, unpleasant or otherwise cause to come home anything less than cheerful. The one thing about the day that does stand out is sliding my key into the number 14 mailbox and opening it to find a fat white envelope with the return address of home. I never got through my door so fast and my purse and keys were on the table almost before my feet hit the kitchen floor. I ripped the envelope open pulling the pile of letters into my greedy hands. Belly flopping on my bed, I unfolded the first one to see handwriting I had spent 6 years coaching. In the next 10 minutes while I read them each over and over, a flood of emotions overwhelmed me. Euphoria at hearing from home made my heart dance. The ache of missing the little hands that had carefully copied, “Emily, I love you very much” onto manuscript paper stung as tears overflowed down my cheeks. With each correctly spelled word, properly worded sentence, and beautifully curved letter, pride swelled in my chest. As I lay there on my bed, head resting on what had suddenly become the six most precious papers in the whole world, I could not help but wonder a little about my reactions. Just a few minutes before it had been a perfectly normal day. One envelope later and I was feeling a whirlwind of emotions, an onslaught I had not dreamed of before opening the number 14 mailbox. What was this? In actuality, I did not have to wonder. I knew what it was. While this was the first time I had hungrily devoured letters from home, laughing and crying the whole time, I knew the familiar feelings of euphoria, ache, and pride. This was none other than the ever clever love.

It was dark in North Omaha. Not the time you want to be out by yourself walking if you are a skinny white girl like me, or pretty much anyone who does not really know what they are doing in North Omaha at night. I was not walking; I was driving Alejandro to the library to pick up the latest Newberry I had my eye on crossing off my list. But my mind was not on The Westing Game, or the fact that it was night, or even the road. I was thinking about my Compass kids. I am only getting to know them, but as I hear bits and pieces of their stories, my heart is broken over and over by what they have seen and live with. A feeling of inadequacy flooded my heart as I contemplated one student’s life situation. There was so much she was facing, so much pain and brokenness and lies and struggle. How could I ever dream of making a difference? Frustration joined inadequacy as I realized that I only get a few hours a week with the kids, but even if I had all the time in the world there was no way I could make everything right for them. Their lives will always bear the scars of the sinful world around them, just like everyone else. Suddenly God spoke into my heart. Softly He whispered, “Have I asked you to make their lives right? Or have I simply asked you to love them in the opportunities I give you?”

The letters are on my headboard. Every time I see them up there I feel a spark of all the emotions I felt when I first opened them. Sometimes I lay in my bed trying to fall asleep thinking about the smiles that used to greet me every morning and long for ways to be able to love them more. As I open folders at Compass and read what each of my Compass kids did the day before during tutoring I realize I feel a spark of those same feelings. Happiness. Pride. And the ever present ache to be able to do more, invest, make difference, to truly love.

Love is a strange thing. It fills you up and bleeds you dry all in the same breath. It makes you care about things and people you never would have dreamed would mean anything to you. It drives me to my knees where I wind up begging God to give me more of it. In the Bible there is a story about a widow who gave two copper coins to the offering to upkeep the temple. It was kind of like donating two pennies towards keeping Saint Cecilia’s beautiful. Yet, when people made fun of her, Jesus said one of the most beautiful things in scripture. He said she had given more than anyone else, because instead of giving out of her wealth, she had given everything she had. Sometimes I feel like that widow in my attempts to love. How can I ever hope to help anything with the pittance I have to offer? The widow could have looked at the enormous amount to be done and thought, “My coins won’t make a difference. There is no reason to even give them.” But she didn’t. She bothered to give what most people would not even pick up out of the gutter and was commended for it. Like the widow I am faced with a choice. Giving all you have, even when that is only two cents, is painful. It makes you vulnerable. It means anything could happen and you have no control over it anymore. Like, none. Zip. Nada. I can pour my heart and soul out for the kids at Compass and there will still be senseless shootings, robberies, broken families, and a world of pain in North Omaha. My heart can ache to the fullest intensity it has ever known for the ones I love I left behind and it won’t change the fact that while I love them I can’t always be there for them. From that perspective, love is really a waste of time. It hurts. It costs more than anyone one in their right mind wants to pay. And often it does not appear to accomplish anything. Appear. Jesus did not say the widow had given more than anyone because her gift was sufficient for repaving the floor of the temple with gold. It was because of how it reflected her heart. She gave all she had. When I love I won’t transform North Omaha into heaven. I won’t keep my siblings from missing me. But I will give all I have. And I will never be the same once I do.