Je t’aime plus

J’adore aujourd’hui!

~Warning, this post get’s a bit gruesome.~

I have always found this day to be fascinating. While many focus on candy and Hallmark sentiments, there is something both tragic and beautiful at the heart of it. Although most that is known about St. Valentine is cloaked in mystery, a few things are known. He died on February 14 269 A.D. However even that fact is debatable from the date to the number of saints. There are many Saint Valentines in the Roman Catholic priesthood and two in particular at the time of death.  Most historians conclude that there was just one man, a saint who became bishop, that was beheaded for his faith.  Although there is little question of the martyrdom of a saint, the event may have been romanticized by Chaucer (author of the Canterbury Tales) in the poem “The Parliament of Fowls”. He actually used the term “Valentine’s Day” which obviously is still in use.

History aside, what I find most incredible is how we celebrate the death of this man. It is a day of love, affection, and declarations of the heart. What an honor to have one’s legacy be wrapped in the beauty of love. This man willingly faced punishment because the love in his heart for God was bigger than death itself. This inspires me beyond words. Although hardly comparable, I often dream of dying for my faith. One dream in particular still haunts me.

I was about to be hung. I looked down and all across my skin were tattoos of the sins of others mixed with inked hearts of love. I was dying so they wouldn’t have to. The enemy was incensed at such affection, so he cut out each tattoo from my body. My skin still crawls when I think about the deep incisions. Mutilated, I dropped to the floor from the loss of blood and remember looking up into the heavens and saying, “Thank you God.”

I’m not stating that true love for God requires martyrdom, but I’m expressing how this love is greater than the worst of the world. It is greater than fame, money, and pleasure. It is eternal. When one is blessed enough to taste the divine nature of God, so many other things fade in comparison. I still remember the look in my boyfriend’s eyes as he looked past death and saw the face of Jesus. Skin was falling off his body from the burns, but he raised up his hands and attempted to spend his last moments of life praising God. Throughout the agony, he saw something I didn’t. He witnessed the fulness of Glory here on earth moments before his body gave up and unleashed his spirit.

This love is more than chocolate or being romanced, because when it is based in God it is the substance worth living (and dying) for.

**CATHOLIC VALENTINES PRAYER

Praise to the One whose love stirs the ancient embers
sparks the breath of prayer

Praise to the One whose love entices the wandering
beckons the confused

Praise to the One whose love grows wings on the weary
dreams hope in the discouraged

Praise to the One whose love soothes with the ointment of mercy
transforms with the touch of compassion

Praise to the One whose love threads the energy of friendship
stitches the strength of fidelity

Praise to the One whose love tickles the soul with laughter
urges the heart toward joy

Praise to the One whose love embraces the untamed
dances with the passionate

All praise to this Gracious One
All gratitude to this Beloved
All love to this Mentor of Friendship
All devotion to this Shaper of Hearts.

 

Interim

My eyes fluttered themselves awake, only to be bombarded with an eyeful of dog.  The two giant golden retrievers were aching for attention and my sleep was getting in the way. I turned away in bed only to have my guilt sting from their whimpers. I moved my heavy limbs out of bed and down the stairs to let them outside. This was not my responsibility. After a few moments in the cold dark, I fed them a treat and we went back inside. Once in the covers, I tried to find that former comfortable space. But that was difficult, since this was not my bed. I looked up at the blank canvas of ceiling, which was soon covered by the graffiti of my thoughts. I noticed a small crack to the far left. It really didn’t concern me….this was not my house.

After finally falling asleep, my nerves alerted me to wake up for a second time. It was not the dogs; it was the sound of sobs. I turned to the cries and reached my hand out. Her body was hot with anguish.

“I can’t do this anymore. I want to die. Dear God, just let me die,” she wailed into her pillow. I leaned in closer and she wrapped her arms around me. “Why doesn’t he love me?” The rest of her words were intangible until she finally looked up at me and said, “You think I’m beautiful right?”

“Of course. You are one of the most beautiful women I know,” I reassured in a whisper.

“Then why is this happening to me?”

We talked about an hour. I prayed over her and reminded her how much God loves her. While growing tired she asked me how I knew so much about life and relationships.

“You understand better than anyone and I don’t know why.”

We fell back asleep, but the morning didn’t ease the tension. She was anxious over her appearance:

“Maybe if I stop eating… I’m going to dye my hair again… Maybe if I buy sexy underwear… If I can learn how to redo my makeup… THEN he will realize how much he has missed me.” It bothers me that when women feel powerless, they nitpick their looks until it causes self-harm. It doesn’t change anything, but it is assumed that any change to the physical will force a reaction. However when the reaction they crave doesn’t come, it spirals them into an even darker depression. And yet, we all still try…thinking that beauty is a free pass from the unfairness of life.*

I had to go and I hugged her goodbye. I hated that I had to leave her, but I secretly was looking forward to rediscovering my life outside of her burden. I was drained. We met up again that evening to go to a concert. I first stopped to talk with my mother.

“Why do you look like a boy?” she asked me, “It’s not like you to look like this.”

“Tonight is not my night to be pretty, mom.” She really didn’t understand what I meant, but it was imperative that I blend in.

Once together again, I curled her hair as she coated on layers of makeup. We sat in the car awhile before going in.

“Do I look ok?”

“You look beautiful.”

“Then why do I feel so stupid?” she asked. I almost went into explanation mode again, but I knew she really hadn’t been listening to anything I had been saying. She just wanted me around, not my insight.

At the venue she broke down.

“I’ve been here before with him.” She started shaking and I gave her my jacket. She leaned in so that I would hold her.

Then it hit me…she had turned me into the man of our friendship. I had become her security and comforter. I am naturally drawn to taking care and protecting those I love. Many friends have used these qualities to transform my role in their minds. But as much as I want to help, these situations never end well. Usually once the friend heals from the broken heart of the man that they mistake me for, they cut off all contact with me. I am merely an interim husband/boyfriend.

Maybe none of this makes sense because I feel as though I am leaving out giant details. Hopefully I will figure out what those are and fix it in the morning. I do think that my next post will basically pick up where this one left off….so much going through my mind.

*(Historical side note: I was watching a Holocaust documentary in one of my classes and one of the men interviewed recalled the day when he arrived at the concentration camp. He witnessed a beautiful girl he had known growing up being sent to the building to have her head shaved. He remembered how she tossed her hair and tried flirting with the guard’s believing that no harm would come to her. But her appearance had the opposite effect and they ended up humiliating her by slapping her face, ripping off her clothes, and making her walk naked the rest of the way.

The evils of life could not care less about our manicured eyebrows and flawless skin. We each endure moments of hell, it is how we handle/heal from them that makes us truly beautiful).