This One's for Valentine's Day

Chocolates and roses.

Teddy bears and pink hearts.

It's that time of year. Where romance blooms, or not. Love is celebrated, or longed for. Special dates and special presents. I recently saw a social media post from a young person I know saying just because he's already her boyfriend doesn't mean he doesn't have to ask her to be his valentine. There is a lot of pressure around this holiday, a lot of social and cultural expectations.

But I'd like to challenge some of these assumptions, to contradict the notion that romance looks like gifts and poems and flowers and chocolates.

There is more than one kind of romance. More than this socially projected and expected expression of love.

You see, if the popular idea of Valentine's Day is the norm for romance, then my dad was never very romantic. Neither is my husband. I can count on one hand the times my Man has brought me flowers, and the only time he gave me chocolate was the 3 bars he brought back from France last summer. At first, I wanted to receive the "normal" romantic expressions from the man who loved me, to get flowers "just because," to have fancy date nights planned for me, to hear sweet nothings and be told I was beautiful all the time. 

This year, as the Husband expressed his disinterest in Valentine's Day plans and my first response was disappointment, I examined my reaction. Valentine's Day is special, it's a day to celebrate love, right? But every day, the Man celebrates our love in little ways that make me feel cherished and cared for. Every morning of my childhood, my dad brought my mom a hot cup of tea in bed. And my Husband is so very like him.

I often wake thirsty in the night, so I keep a bottle of water by the bed. More often than not, the Husband fills it for me before I even remember to. Before we switched to flannel sheets, he heated my rice bag and placed it at the foot of the bed so my cold toes would encounter warmth. If there are ever any dishes in the sink that I haven't washed (again, more often than not), he washes them without complaint. He chips off the ice so I can sit warm in the car. He comes home from work early when I've had a bad anxiety day, just because I need him near.

Each of these and so many more are his constant, frequent gifts of love.

Dear Young Women, love is not flowers and gifts and showing you off and knowing your size. Love is patience when you cry because you dropped something, kindness when you burned the food, understanding your needs enough to avoid the things that stress you. Love is encouraging you to pursue God and fellowship with others, knowing that you need this on Sunday morning more than extra sleep. Love is celebrating your victories over inner struggles, even when they would be small to anyone else. Love is treasuring you regardless of what you do for him.

Love looks a little different for each person in each relationship, but I can guarantee that it is not solely, or even mainly, what is sold to us by consumerism and the media.

In fact, love isn't just romantic. For years when I was single, I watched people around me grit their teeth and bear it through February 14, calling it "National Singleness Awareness Day," or bemoaning their lack of significant other. I observe movies and TV shows as characters scramble for a date to avoid being alone.

But I never felt that way. There is so much love in each of our lives to celebrate without a significant other, because being in a relationship, getting married, and having children isn't the ultimate achievement. Your ultimate happiness won't come from a romantic relationship - many divorced couples will tell you that.

So this Valentine's Day, go ahead, celebrate love. I'll be celebrating friendship and fellowship of those brought together by the love of Christ in our church small group. Celebrate your relationship, celebrate friendships and family, but don't let others' expectations dictate what that celebration looks like. Instead, look for those small, everyday acts of kindness that you share with those you love.

And then maybe eat some chocolate, too.

Learning to Say No (Long winded and with tangents)

"It's hard to say no when the need never stops."

That's what I told Pastor Zach on Sunday while explaining why I wasn't going to Ecuador with the church in February.

Let me repeat that:

My church is going to Ecuador. My current home has a passion and love for my home country. And I'm not going with them.

I'm not going with them because I'm still in recovery. Ministry burnout took more than I knew, recovery takes longer than I hoped, longer than I planned. I planned for two months, three at the most. The Husband and I married in September and stay-at-home-wife isn't really a thing in my generation, so clearly I would get a job. A couple months off to rest, I figured, then I'd work on my resume and definitely have a job by January. At least a part-time job. Something to show that I am a worthwhile person, that I am contributing to my little family of two, that my time is spent well, that I am not lazy and taking advantage of my wonderful husband, that I'm not using anxiety and burnout as an excuse to binge Netflix and keep up on Hulu.

Yet here it is, the day before February, and my church is going to my home country (where it's the best time of year, sunny and in the 70s) and I can't go. I consider a productive day to be one that includes cooking and/or knitting, possibly some freelance editing. Laundry is an accomplishment. Showering in the morning is an accomplishment. One that I haven't completed today, I confess.

But that's all a tangent.

"It's hard to say no when the need never stops."

I felt that way for four years with ICI. I feel that way still. My parents are moving in February, and my first instinct is, "Should I go down and help?" My friend from college is in the hospital, her husband home with two foster boys, and I think, "Should I go down and help?" We're not even that close anymore, but I passionately believe that we should foster, adopt, and support those who do. The church asked if we could help with the children's ministry, and I gritted my teeth as I forced myself to say no. The crisis in Venezuela continues as refugees pour into Ecuador, my parents supporting a local church that is partnering with a church in Venezuela, and I think, are there relief programs in place? Can I go help in one, start one?

No. No. NO.

So, unable to be the hands and feet of Jesus, I pray, and I ask the Husband if we can give. Be the pocketbook of Jesus, so to speak. Not that He needs us to be His pocketbook. Not that anyone in America calls it a pocketbook anymore.

Having explained my burnout and limited energies to Pastor Zach, he responds by sharing the time he also ran himself ragged. How he also talked to doctors and counselors. He encouraged me to be ok with taking care of myself. After all, even Jesus left the crowds for times of rest. Even though the needs didn't stop there either. People still needed healing. Still asked Him to talk to them. Still wanted more from Him. But He stepped away.

This January marks 25 years of ministry in Ecuador for my parents. I only made it four in Chicago. But then again, Jesus only had three years of active ministry on earth, so maybe it's not a numbers game. Because if it were, then I beat out Jesus, so I must have done pretty well after all. But that sounds not only sacreligious, but petty and foolish.  And maybe a bit funny. I'm sure he had a sense of humor. Has. Present tense.

I don't know why I expect more for myself than is reasonable. I don't know why I assign time frames for healing and recovery. I don't know why I assume the Husband is silently judging and evaluating me. He's not. He gives me more grace and understanding than I give myself.

Pastor Zach suggested something I had never considered: A long-term view of ministry. The Husband agreed: I tend to sprint right out the gate. But sprinting isn't feasible for the long-term. A lifetime of loving and serving others can only be achieved if I also love and care for myself. There's all kinds of literature out there now about The Best Yes (which is a book on my shelf given by a kind roommate that I have yet to read), and how every time you say yes to one thing you say no to something else, and saying no allows you to say yes to something else. The latter being things like rest, family, health, etc.

Some days, the Husband comes home from work and he has to reheat the plan-ahead leftovers, because I am so drained, from life in general, from a migraine, the reasons vary, that moving from my nest on the couch seems infeasible. My one job as a wife: feed the man. And I don't even always do that. (Maybe I'll change the job description to "Kiss the man." I can always do that.)

I am learning to accept that my needs matter, even though the wounds are hidden wounds and hard to describe to the outsider. I'm learning that limitations are a beautiful thing. I'm learning that "No" is not a bad answer. And I daily thank God for the gift of the time and space to do that.

Simple Kindness

The snow was still light and airy as I swept it off the car. My neighbor shoveled around his minivan beside me. Last week, my husband cleaned out the minivan's spot when we cleared ours, and now the neighbor had already shoveled away all the snow between the two cars. Kindness shared, I thought and tried to catch his eye in greeting. I was careful to sweep the snow to the unshoveled side as I cleared off the roof, respecting the work he had done.

As I finished shoveling around our car, I moved on to the adjacent walkway, yellow stripes that marked the entry to the sidewalk appearing as I pushed the snow to the edge of the lawn.  The snow was packed hard here from the treading of many feet, piled high along the edges from the passing plow. The neighbor, his car freed, loaded with sleds, wife driving the daughters off for an adventure, moved to join me in clearing the public space. Then we started on the sidewalks. I shoveled till my hands shook, my arms ached, my shirt soaked through with sweat. The neighbor's son had come out, cute in the unique Asian way, smiling eyes and quiet demeanor, whispering to his dad in a tongue I couldn't understand. He skittered back towards the apartment, watching us. As I stretched my back, rolling my shoulders, I decided I had done my share of caring for our communal space and turned to wave goodbye to the neighbor. The boy emerged from the apartment with a juice box. He spoke quietly to his father, and the man pointed at me, urging him forward. The little boy ran up to me, smiling shyly, juice box in his outstretched hand, and said "Thank you."

This simple kindness was touching. The thoughtfulness of a small boy to offer something of his own to me. I clomped up the stairs in my heavy boots, stripped off my parka, wool mittens, and snow pants, then collapsed on the couch. Reaching immediately for the juice, I smiled as I pierced the little foil hole with the straw - adulthood hasn't diminished my delight in juice boxes.

A few hours later I glanced out the window and noticed the apartment complex actually had sent out snow blowers - everything we didn't shovel was evenly cleared. I let out a short laugh. Our hard work had been unnecessary. But I didn't regret it. It gave me some healthy exercise, a sense of a job well-done, and the opportunity to make a connection and receive a young boy's honest kindness.

Sunday.

I cried on Sunday. 

Tears dripped off my chin as I sniffled quietly, listening to the pastor's message.

Then I fled, 

Pulling up my hood to shelter my tears, 

To the ladies' room.

Sobs shook my chest and my lungs caught, unsure if air was still welcome. I looked at my wet eyes and something crumbled inside of me, trying to hide itself back into the tight ball shattered by that short sentence: 

"We need to go headfirst into the darkness."

I'm not sure I can describe the ripping, the tearing these words caused, still cause, something deep within me grieving. 

I remember that burden, that burning desire to walk into the pain, the brokenness, the darkness, the hopelessness, the torrent of lives untouched by the church, something inside me screams. I remember it, and I went, and I broke. "He won't ask you to do more than you can handle," said the pastor, encouraging the congregation to step out in faith. But He does. He asks for more than we can give, offers more than we can carry. How else will we know we are weak? 

I wasn't weak, I was strong.

There is a certain high you get from succeeding, from doing well. 

That is gone now. 

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that."

Martin Luther King Jr. said that. We just celebrated his legacy and his memory.

But he died. 

I have died, too. 

Hate ended his life. Inspired by his words, I offered love, yet hate screamed so loudly all around me. I grew hoarse. My breath, gone. A passionate, living part of me has died. The light no longer enough for any more than myself. And my world, oh, blessed relief, has shrunk to just me. And my husband. I no longer fight to offer love. My role is just to be loved.  

Faces still haunt me. Voices echo in stillness and solitude. I dream about them. The ones I loved well. The ones I failed. Their vibrant joys and violent pains. 

I step back to let someone else fight in the darkness. Someone else shine. 

When Pastor Z called the church to step out intentionally in love, as Christ did in Matthew Four, I wanted to shout back. 

But I honestly don't know what I would shout.

A warning? "Don't do it. It hurts!" 

A retort? "I have, and I can't go any further. Let me rest!"

An agreement? "Yes! Please! Everyone, join the ranks, let's bathe this world in Christ's light!"

I've been reading the book of Job, and find deep comfort there. This man sees the injustice in the world. Has fought to love the broken, stood strong in his service to God, yet is now brought low. Steeped in misery, everything stripped from him, he asks God, Why? What did I do wrong?  

We need space to feel this. To say this. To not jump straight to celebration and ignore the pain. 

So please, join in with Pastor Z and MLK and fight the darkness, with the gospel, with love, with social awareness and justice - but don't ask me to join you. I don't have any more love to give. I am learning to simply be loved. And to keep crying.