This will reach you on Valentine’s Day so I suppose I should write about love. The first thing you need to know is that love isn’t about flowers, or candy, or a dinner out. I feel sorry for men on this day because our culture has attached a lot of guilt to it. They are expected to lay out a lot of cash to prove their devotion, and women are encouraged to ask for outrageous gifts. News flash—that stuff doesn’t prove love. Proof is in the everyday acts; filling the gas tank, helping with dishes, a morning hug, and calling if you’re going to be late.
When I was in grade school there was always a Valentine party. The teacher decorated a shoebox with crepe paper and cut a hole in the top. We were supposed to bring Valentine cards for all the class and a special one for teacher. Well, the teacher one was an expectation from my mom, who had been a teacher. I don’t know if everyone else gave her one because she never made a show of them, probably to spare feelings of students who didn’t. That too was love, by the way.
My valentines were always home-made; hearts cut from red construction paper and glued on paper doilies. Sometimes there was glitter involved, but it made a mess that my mom wasn’t fond of. There were others like mine, and some kids went down to the drugstore and bought a box of cartoon type ones. A few put a red lollipop in the box for each kid, and there was usually a box of those little message hearts from somebody. I always thought those were special and tried to figure out who might be hinting they liked me. Never mind that everyone in the room had one just like mine. As kids, our thoughts center on ourselves, and some of us never outgrew it.
By junior high, that all went away and Valentine’s Day passed unnoticed until I met my first husband. He had been raised in a house where the males were expected to buy a satin covered, heart shaped, box of chocolates for Mom and any other special ladies. Bob always got one for his mom and sister-in-law and, when I appeared on scene, there was one for me and another for my mom. My dad, whose standard idea of a gift was to hand out some money and say, “Go buy yourself something,” snorted and said something about petting the cow in order to tame the calf. But the tradition held, and Bob always had a small heart shaped box for our daughter too.
What I want you to know about love is this. While such remembrances are nice, they don’t count if not shored up by respect. Love and respect, are action words. Love words are nice and, ideally, we’d use our love words often, but it runs a lot deeper than that. St. Francis said, “Preach the gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.” Gospel means good news. Love is good news. It’s the only news that counts.
I’m out of here. Headed for the kitchen to make my love some cinnamon rolls.
Meet me here next week and meanwhile do your best. Somebody might like it.