Love Is

The other night I drove to Wal-Mart by myself to get dog food since we spent the day out and the dogs spent the day locked up only to discover that they would not be fed at the end of the day. While I occasionally despise them, I also feel bad for their small lives knowing that the only joy they experience comes from us and when we don't feel like giving them any it must make their existence pretty unbearable. On the way to Wal-Mart I heard a clip of a guy speaking. He started by asking the audience to think about the last seven times they said I love you. And then to consider how many of those times by saying that, they meant they were surrendering their rights to be placed under the priority of the other person's. Then he said, "Not exactly, right? What you meant was, 'I love what you do for me." I don't know who it was or even what station it was, but those words have been rolling through my mind for days. I can't even begin to tell you what lies swirl in the mix of those thoughts. "I love that you are... because it makes me..." "I love how you behave because it makes my workload lighter." "I love you for me."

The lie that sucks me in every time is that I deserve something in return for selfless love. There is a part of motherhood that requires a real stripping of self in order to succeed in any capacity. Even the worst of mothers housed the baby in their own body for nine months and then gave birth- it's not necessarily a sacrifice of the will, but a sacrifice none the less. In the continuing process, you are stripped, to a certain extent, of your identity, your will, your needs, your freedom, and the luxury of peace and quiet. It's not that there is no return, because the return is truly beyond the expression of words, but sometimes that gets lost in the shuffle of everything else.

My expression of love comes in the form of scrubbing vomit from the toilet stool, standing in the kitchen while everyone else in the house sits in front of the TV, and going to the grocery store at the end of the day despite complete exhaustion. And even then sometimes I forget that I am loving my family in service because I tend to tally all the ways I have shown love and not seen it reciprocated. Even though the man in my life spends day after day getting up early and coming home late so that there is food to eat and gas in the tank and heat in my house; it's an act of selfless service that tends to also go unrecognized. Beyond that, he makes continual efforts to be the father he aspires to be to this overflowing brewd of children. I know, but sometimes I forget that we're both working really, really hard.

Love is a verb, true. In the light of truth, the author of the expression itself gave us the perfect imagery in that He humbled Himself, taking the form of a man, and came into mankind to be a servant. How can I measure my meager sacrifices against what He gave up? It was more than a physical sacrifice; from the very beginning, he humbled himself to the lowest form and without a hint of resentment. How can this be? And how do I suffer so in my life in light of Him giving up His life for this one, even if only for me? It's a humbling thought and yet He sees me with the same genuine feelings, empty of any resentment of my continual failure. What a Savior. What a Friend.