The other night, my pastor described love for us:
With all due respect to C.S. Lewis, [author of The Four Loves], there are many more kinds of love. Hundreds of kinds of love within a marriage.
There’s the kind of love that deepens when you figure out the mundane details, groceries and chores, of living together. The kind of love when you make up after your first big fight. The kind of love when you bleach the bathroom floor because your spouse got the stomach flu.
And he went on. While I don't know what love is like in a marriage, I do know the love of friends and family — hundreds, if not thousands, of faces and facets of love.
There's the kind of love that wakes up early on Saturdays to buy a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts from the gas station down the street when you have sleepovers.
The kind of love that teaches you to read in doctors’ offices, forming letters with the throat-swabbing popsicle sticks.
The kind of love that gives you ten dollars from her own Vera Bradley wallet when, once again, you’ve blown through your own monthly allowance in the first week on the magazines and the junk twelve-year-olds buy.
The kind of love that cries when you leave for London, affirming what you’re fighting to believe: you’ll be missed.
The kind of love whose first thought is for you, are you okay, when the crumpled car rolls to a stop.
The kind of love that catches you mid-collapse.
The kind of love that listens, prays, and calls.
The kind of love that sees who you are, who you have been, and who you will become, and treasures each.
How grateful I am for these many portraits of love.