The Love of God: Other Words to Help You Take Heart in Romance

The Love of God

The Love of God, by Frederick M. Lehman (1917)

The love of God is greater far

Than tongue or pen can ever tell;

It goes beyond the highest star,

And reaches to the lowest hell;

 

The guilty pair, bowed down with care,

God gave His Son to win;

His erring child He reconciled,

And pardoned from his sin

 

Could we with ink the ocean fill,

And were the skies of parchment made,

Were every stalk on earth a quill,

And every man a scribe by trade;

 

To write the love of God above

Would drain the ocean dry;

Nor could the scroll contain the whole,

Tho’ stretched from sky to sky.

 

Some recent links to help you take heart in romance:

1. After years of waiting for God to bring the right man her way, Charity Singleton becomes Charity Craig in a surprise wedding, with she and her love lingering long on the vow, “in sickness and in health.”

2. In a culture that seems obsessed with young love, I appreciate how Kelli Trujillo sings the praises old love: “It’s the ‘long-loved loves,’ to borrow a phrase from Madeleine L’Engle, that I am being taught by real life to admire. Like wine growing richer and fuller with age, this is where the true, hidden beauty can be found.”

3. Check out this lovely bouquet of marriage advice from elderly couples that Christie Elkins (who will be guest posting in our Take Heart series this week!) found as she sorted through a closet recently.

4. I was so moved by Alia Joy’s painful journey of a love almost lost, all the brokenness and failure coming around to redemption and faithfulness. Just soak in these poetic lines: “I am no longer fresh-faced, but these eyes can see. The days of labor and hard work drift off your skin and smell like faithfulness. We have known thorns but still plant and reap. There’s beauty here. We no longer feel our rings, but they have encircled our family.”

stitching

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Take Heart Series ~ Feb 2013This post is part of our Take Heart series. This week we’ve been talking about taking heart in the struggles of singleness, marriage, loss and abandonment.

P.S. There’s still time to enter our Take Heart necklace giveaway!

Writing Butterflies and Brokenness {Preserve Your Story ~ Day 11}

I combed through gritty words and searched for my own like a beachcomber after high tide. I pictured this particular shell opening up to look like a butterfly with wings spread. I imagined the swish of the surf, like young love, and then straight away came the weight of the cargo ships in bay. If I was going to write authentically in response to this part of Gift from the Sea for my summer book club, I had to write about the days of swollen eyes and headaches and doubt.

I would have rather taken the whole experience, tied a rock around it and thrown it out to sea, but something told me I had to write it down. I had to write my brokenness. Maybe sharing about a confusing and embarrassingly immature time in my life could help some other young woman choose true love over fear, just as a mentor’s wise words had helped me.

We don’t want to hide behind the happy highlight reel or go around looking like a 50s sitcom star vacuuming in a dress and pearls, but neither do we want to be the girl without a filter, spewing teenage angst on our readers.

Before I went to Influence, I weighed in with other attendees on Nish Weiseth’s final preparations for her talk “Blogging Dangerously,” asking how we can decide what’s appropriate, how we can discern the difference between just trying to be edgy to get attention and writing something hard or thought-provoking that could really make a difference.

Sometimes, in order to speak authentically on an issue or experience, and to let people know they’re not alone, we have to write outside the lines and share stories of our own failure or brokenness. But even when we write dangerously, we need to do so with some sense of caution.

Nish wisely encouraged us to begin with praying about our idea, asking our Counselor for wisdom. Why share this particular story? Is the risk of conflict or misunderstanding worth it? Next, we ask permission from others who may be affected by the story. How do your people feel about it? The trust and security in our closest relationships should always come before any supposed benefit for our wider circle of readers.

It took me a whole day to edit “The Butterfly Effect”. I shared it with my husband and had him redline anything that made him uncomfortable. I shared it with my mom who had prayed me through the drama to begin with. She did some more redlining. They became the filter I needed when emotion had clouded mine.

Finally, when I had permission to publish the piece, I wondered if readers would make false assumptions about the validity of my relationship or make judgments about my emotional stability. Yet, I felt the risk was worth the possibility of reminding people like me that strong love is based on trust and that while the butterfly sensations of different phases are not illusion, neither are they are a fit foundation for relationship.

That day after I’d put my story out into blog world, I followed a random string of links and comments and more links that led me to three other blog posts covering similar issues. I felt a camaraderie in my writing when I had just hours ago felt odd and alone. Here was a little group of us synchronized by the Spirit to put this truth into the blogosphere that particular day…to challenge those who mistakenly believe that romantic feeling is the substance of relationship, when it is really just an accessory like a seashell on a shelf.

{How do you decide what sensitive topics and personal struggles are publishable? What stories of others’ weakness, failure or brokenness have ministered to you? What stories have you shared from your own life and what has been the result?}

This is Day 11 of my series 31 Days ~ Preserve Your Story, linking up with The Nester’s annual 31 Days of Change.

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The Butterfly Effect {Gift from the Sea 4: Double-Sunrise}

Sometimes I want to forget that summer. I want to forget the tangled strands of brunette and the stomach that knotted as the ferry lurched into the Tangier port, the place where bold turquoise cranes hid earth-toned buildings that stair-stepped the hill, where hefty ships hauled towers of metal cargo.

I want to forget the tears that dried before they could trickle into my mint tea in the market town that burned like an oven. I want to forget how I shushed him and called him simple when he tried to cool me down, talk me out of my fear.

I want to forget the girls at the Algeciras port and all their talk of butterflies in the stomach that told them for sure they were in love with their men. It wasn’t that I’d never had the fluttery feeling. I had felt it when a friend introduced Craig and me in the low light of the bowling alley six years earlier. When he walked in to meet my parents wearing a Vandy T-shirt and right away had my mom convinced that he was the one for me. When he whispered the carved words in the echoing chamber of the Lincoln Memorial.

When we sat on the steps of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument at the circle, counting every American flag in view before I left for my year abroad in China. When he sent the “Esc with me” card during my stay in Thailand. When we spent Memorial Day at the park hiking and talking about family and future and stretching the day into evening listening to music on the floor of my room.

When he read Jim Elliot’s journals and talked the entire dinner about them right before my first trip to Spain. When he showed up in his dad’s brand new Corvette and drove me on dirt roads under the lemon-wedge moon squeezing out the last bit of summer. When he took me on the Ferris Wheel in the sweet corn capital of the world, and when he kissed me after. So many times, I had felt the butterflies.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh opened the two halves of the double-sunrise shell and described it this way, recalling the flitting innocence of fresh love: “Each side, like the wing of a butterfly, is marked with the same pattern; translucent white, except for three rosy rays that fan out from the golden hinge binding the two together…. For the first part of every relationship is pure…. It is pure, simple and unencumbered….a self-enclosed world.” I had felt the butterflies all those times before, and now I wanted them caged, with me always as proof of enduring love.

Three months from our wedding date, instead of the tickly, light and airy sensation in the stomach, I felt all the weight of those cargo ships at the port. I wanted to keep “the artist’s vision” without ever having to “discipline it into form.” I wanted “the flower of love before it has ripened to the firm but heavy fruit of responsibility.”

Soon, I found myself walking down the sidewalk with our team leader, Fouad. Tears kept flowing and I was on the verge of hyperventilating. I was embarrassed that my emotions had gushed out and created all this turbulence. He had known me seven years by then, even longer than Craig, and had seen me through my college years and several continents’ worth of ministry. And now, he was helping guide me through these uncharted waters.

As we walked and talked about my relationship with Craig, Fouad led me to one vital question. “Who do you trust?” he asked. Not “Who makes your veins go fiery?” or “Who makes you weak in the knees?” though Craig had indeed caused those symptoms in me before. I tilted my head. No hesitation. I trusted Craig. I brushed the tears from my face.

Craig’s name means “rock,” and it fits him well. There had never been a time in all my years of knowing him that I had been unsure of his feelings for me, or his intentions for us. He stood unshakeable and I liked that. I needed that.

Fouad and I continued to talk. He asked more questions. What does the Lord say? What does wise counsel say? All of it added up. Our leader was righting this wayward vessel. I had been expecting the impossible, believing the fable that love was equal to a continuous tingly sensation.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh, in all of her relationship experience (and failure), recognized that “…there is no holding of a relationship to a single form. This is not tragedy but part of the ever-recurrent miracle of life and growth…. Beautiful, fragile, fleeting, the sunrise shell; but not, for all that, illusory.”

The butterfly sensations of our young love were no illusion, but they were not a fit foundation for relationship either. While I already loved and trusted Craig, the heavy work of getting through my insecurities that summer only made me trust him all the more.

So often in these eight years of marriage, we’ve been able “to find the miracle of the sunrise repeated,” in witnessing God’s miraculous intervention in hopeless circumstance, in perfectly-timed shooting stars, in the raw emotion of natural childbirth, in catching each other’s eye in the teamwork of raising little ones, and as we follow our creative call in making music and working with words together.

And while the fluttery feelings are no prerequisite for enduring love, they are not absent either. In this changing, growing relationship, we can take time to renew the youth of our marriage “like a dip in the sea” and welcome the butterflies when they come.

{This week’s post is based on Chapter 4, “Double-Sunrise” in Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. View all entries in the series here.}

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So, what’s your take? Pick one or more of the reflection questions in the comments section and enter a reply to share your thoughts. All subscribers’ comments on the weekly Gift from the Sea posts (shared on Mondays in June and July) will be entered for a drawing at the end of our Summer Book Club 2012.