Love is painful.
I don't want to paint a pretty picture of love every time, don't want to romanticize it, because the truth is that love, true love, hurts.
Love cannot be contained. It travels in me, claims me, has made me and keeps remaking me. Love is meant to give out, never to hold, only to disperse in striking amounts so that we can receive True Love. And its exit is painful.
I can't romanticize love. At times it can be reflected this way and that, but to say that love shouldn't hurt is to say that I've not loved enough. I've not loved big enough, high enough. To say that love is not painful is to assume that I am not weak, that my very flesh is invincible, immortal, perfect. To say that painful love is not love is to say that I have not given myself at all and am not willing to.
That is not love to me.
To say so would negate an act of love that poured Itself out on the very ground, opened Itself with each scourging blow, with each buffet and insult, those very wounds becoming faucets of mercy and love. To say love doesn't hurt says I can't perceive the pain of lonliness up high on a cross, the abandonment of friends, the alienation of this world upon the shoulders of this God-Man, my King subjected to be nailed to a tree aside two common thieves. To say I negate the pain in this act of love is to deny myself of the very Love being given from it.
True Love is riddled with self sacrifice and this world today is a clear sign of how painful that love can be, so much so that people have created a "pain-free" world in order not to feel the emptying of what true love really is. My heart sees a world of hearts not willing to give of themselves, holding on to the most valuable talent He gave us, dooming us to hold on selfishly to what isn't ours to begin with, what He commanded be shared.
The only reason love exists is because He is Love. In creating me, Love is branded throughout my very being. And this abundant Love is meant to be distributed, to the very last tearful drop.
Because a vat filled with wine cannot receive new, fresh wine. Its emptiness is required.
This vat, made of flesh and bone, feels the emptying of self, in love, to receive a Love far beyond my comprehension, far beyond my very own power to love. I can never receive That Love if I don't release the limited love I contain within.
And once I do let go and let Love, it is only then that I feel immense joy. Love leads to joy. To love, give it, wear it vulnerable and raw, is the only way to receive joy, not the fleeting kind, the everlasting kind. Eternal Joy.
Love to me is....
When I look at her, at her innocent beauty, her purity, my heart empties out, painfully ebbing out through the thinnest of tears. I lose myself, only to fill up with her. Her little fingers letting go of her love to wipe those tears. The exchange begins with pain and ends in joy.
I think of him and once again, the passion of detachment, my very soul, whose fibers have entwined with his, start to pull at mine, even with bodies close, whispers heard loud, emptying myself in helpless love. The exchange begins with pain and ends in joy.
But most of all, love is when I look upon my Savior, in whatever form He chooses to reveal Himself to me, His eyes turned to me, His wounded Heart beating for me, each pain-filled thump creating a whisper of the words, I Love You. This exchange begins with His pain and ends in my joy. In this moment I realize what Love is, I let go of me, bearing that pain, my heart being able to truly beat back...
I love You too.