St. Valentine & The Flame (2.5.25)

Love hurt.

Many years ago, something very sad happened to us. Not long after, Florence told me of an encounter she had with a school mom who knocked on our door to invite our kids to a playdate. Still in mourning, we declined. But when Florence remarked on the beautiful sunny day, our friend confided that she does not trust bright blue skies, because they remind her of the day her brother died in an aviation accident. Other, more private, conversations ensued in the weeks that followed, through which we learned how to process our own grief, and to understand the inner workings of those who travelled in grief with us.

Photo by Sam Schooler on Unsplash

Since that day, Florence closely observes people’s eyes. Shakespeare wrote that they are the window to the soul, and indeed they are. In our friend’s eyes, in the eyes of those who grieved with us, in the eyes of a colleague who unexpectedly lost a nephew, something irreversibly changes when a young person in your life is suddenly, violently, taken away. Florence likens it to a flame that has gone out, supplanted by the void of extinguished light.

Valentine’s Day is around the corner, so I wish to talk about love. More specifically, how can we take stock of love? There are many measures of love. There is the generosity, of gifts, surprises, special moments and getaways. There is the sharing, of secrets, hopes and wishes, fears, regrets and disappointments. There are acts of service and words of affirmation. There is patience in trial and sacrifice in sickness. There is faithfulness, and there is forgiveness.

But one measure of love that we rarely mention, because it is so awkward to open up, is grief. It is a sure measure, but uniquely difficult, because it is drawn against the tomorrow that never comes. No way to change your last words, no way to say what was unsaid, no way to undo what was done, or to do what was not done. In grief, we take stock of all that is missed, and all that which can never be. Our unfinished love becomes an ever-scar. If you are one in whom the Flame has died, my heart aches that you understand what I say so well, that your pain traces such an uncomfortable path to sit alongside mine.

Photo by Velizar Ivanov on Unsplash

This February 14, as on every February 14, there will be much grief around the world. There will be conflict, and death. Anger, and fear. Retribution, and remorse. To contemplate it is overwhelming; where does healing even start? It is like when we first grieved, when our emotions were stretched to the limits of pliability and lost the propensity to snap back. But over time, our grief coaxed forth something in us: to better notice others in pain.

We will never know if this subtle intuition is what caused our friend to open up on that bright, sunny day, but we are glad she did. In the measure of love that was lost to her, a measure of love was found for us.

Perhaps, then, that is where we begin.

Sometimes, it is in death’s shadow that love burns most fearlessly.

J/Rom 5:8