“Love is a peculiar thing, it’s kind of like a lizard. It wraps it’s tail around your heart and crawls into your gizzard.” Those are the wise words regarding love that my father taught me from a young age, and while I’m not quite sure what it means, I know it’s profound and semi-true. Love doesn’t make sense. Love is crazy. Both Francis Chan and Michael Bublé say so–perhaps they should collaborate on something.
Inspiration is not in short supply, nor is the time to write, but I don’t do it. I don’t do it because I’m scared. I’m scared that my writing is in vain, I’m scared that this will be the writing that proves I’m not a good writer, I’m scared that my words are meaningless after all. But love; love conquers such fears, doesn’t it? I mean, I’ve never read that love specifically conquers that particular fear, but isn’t it supposed to drive out “all” fear?
I’m afraid of so much more than writing though. I’m afraid of love itself, because it doesn’t make sense. Sure, I’m talking about the glamorous, amorous sort of love, but I’m also talking about down and dirty, gritty, self-sacrificial, everyone else first, serving love. Real love isn’t about me, after all. Love is for everybody else. And love is something I don’t know how to do in practice. I’ve served others at times, though never adequately, and I’ve even been “in love” whatever that means. I’ve felt the pain of losing love, both of best friend and of best girl. But love can’t really be lost, can it? Real love comes from the Creator, and flows from an incessant supply.
I need to tap into that wellspring. Because love never fails.