Being single most of my life, I was never a big Valentine’s Day fan.  Being prone to cynicism still, I remain unconvinced of its historical credibility and more certain of its commercial value.  BUT…I have opportunity to reflect on love, what with it all around me in flowers and cards and songs (and that’s just at CVS). So reflect I will.  Just in a non-Hallmark way.

The Husband and I had to part ways during our recent run.  A couple of miles in, it became clear that my body was not going to cooperate with that physical venture, and I grabbed his shirt.  “I can’t!” I wheezed, exulting in my relief and agonizing over my failure.  And so the student became the teacher, as I gave him permission to go ahead and I headed home to a warm bath and the temptation to beat myself up.

But on the way to both, I decided to call The Sis.  She’s been a runner for awhile too, and my sister for forever, and besides all this is one of the most practical people I know.  Girl-wise, anyway.  I told her about my crappy run, my frustration and discouragement, my fears over the health problems this all could signal–the tumor eating away at me, the aneurysm on my doorstep.  Yes, this is where my mind goes when it’s left to its own devices.  The Sis listened, and then she answered.

“You know I’ve heard all this from you before, right?”

I paused, taken aback and confused that she wasn’t offering advice from her medical background as an NP.  “Huh?”

“You called me the last time you were training for a half, all the time telling me about your sucky runs.  And then you ran the race and it was fine.”

Pause again.  “But are you sure it’s not something chemical–”

“NO!  Except maybe you should eat less fried chicken.  But it’s mental.  You have to stop putting so much pressure on yourself.”

“But the last time I trained, I don’t remember ever having this much trouble–”

“You did.  And I heard about it all the time.  AND THEN YOU RAN THE RACE.”

Her words, epitome of tough love that they were, were also just what I needed.  I walked into our house, the one planned and saved for years in advance by TH–this man who wants to make a home and a life with a crazy person like me.  I looked around at that life, at the glasses by the sink and the cloudy film and fingerprints on them, signs of ourselves that I am always only too anxious to wipe away or trade for a shinier version.  I realized that the greatest evidence that I live in a broken world is me: my ability to major on the minors, to turn everything into an ordeal, to take a blessing and twist it into a burden, to dabble in and perfect the snide art of meanness, to in so doing make a mockery of all the love spent on my behalf.

Dear God.  Is there no end to his patience?  To the patience of those who put up with me alongside him?

I turned on the TV and Sex and the City lit up the room.  I thanked God that even in the crassest trappings of our pop culture–some of which I just love–he shows up.  He’s not above any of it, if we’re willing to look for him.  Because he lives in stories. And I laughed hard as I told him–“I am such a Miranda.”

And then there’s my Steve, setting out a giant card to greet me when I came downstairs this morning, arranging for flowers to be waiting on my crazy ass when I arrive at work.  The husband I wanted for so long and looked for under every gross rock I could find, until I gave up and was re-met with a love that transcends even vows and cake and heals me daily, makes me whole as I am broken so that even in my utter brokenness, I do not rely on that husband for life.  I rely on him for so many things–laughter, warmth, Thursday night comedy partner, finishing the leftover food on my plate–but I did not step into this relationship with a need for him to give me an identity.  My wholeness rests in the realm of eternity, where moth and thief cannot touch it.

I wrote his card last night, telling him that I still can’t believe we are each other’s, and I realized that this is the ground in which so many of my problems grow: in unbelief.  Not believing that I could be loved so much and so well by him, or by the God who made me.  My inability to stand underneath it, to receive this love that is so relentless it is almost too much for my heart to take.  And then I realize that it’s these moments–when I am staring this love in the face and finding I can barely stand it, that it’s so great my heart tries to hide–it is these moments when I am finally beginning to see love as it was meant to be.  And I will run to it.