Only the brokenhearted can truly appreciate how rare and beautiful and delicate love is. Only those courageous enough to do whatever it takes to make love work, discover all that love has to offer. Only the humble put their ego and pride to the side long enough to dare to fully commit. Only the bold go to God and say, “Make me extraordinary, and lead me into an extraordinary marriage, and to do extraordinary things for you.
—Unka Glen (http://unkaglen.tumblr.com/)
He could always tell by the angle of her chin.
It was in the small things that he had first seen it.
“Maybe I should get a guy to help me lift this,” he’d suggested one night as they poised to lift the couch. They were rearranging the furniture in his house to accommodate the guests they would have that evening. Instantly, a rebellion sparked in her eyes. Quickly, almost imperceptibly, the shift came: an upward tilt to the pointed line of her chin. Her face was all angles, and in his mind’s eye they shifted and changed with the increased force of her stubbornness. She lifted the couch almost effortlessly.
“Do you want me to cut those?” he had asked one evening as she sliced tomatoes for their sandwiches. She’d replied that she didn’t mind, and sent him to flip the burgers. When he returned back inside, he saw that they would not be having tomatoes that evening, for blood from the nick on her finger melded with the fruit’s red flesh. He applied pressure with a napkin and dressed it with a bandage, kissing it gently. “Will you be okay?” She’d smiled, a gentle twinkle in the eyes that were always a force to be reckoned with. She said that she would be fine, and as the words slid from her lips he saw it. Though she proceeded to clean up the blood from the cutting board, she lifted her chin just slightly and he knew she was telling the truth.
One night, she’d been called into work when she had a ten page paper due the next day. “You know that you can always say no, right?” he’d asked, concerned that she wouldn’t get any sleep that night. She had replied that she’d much rather work for the evening than require her boss to put in a twelve hour day just because she had procrastinated with her paper. She propped her foot on the chair by the door to tie her bedraggled work shoes and then hugged him goodbye. As she hefted her backpack onto her shoulder, she smiled at his worried expression and said, “Don’t worry, I can do it. I’ll be okay.” He knew that she meant it, because as he closed the door behind her he noticed the higher angle of her chin.
The night she got the call, he was terrified. It was the first time he’d seen those fiery eyes extinguished by tears, so much that they overflowed and cascaded down her cheeks. As he wrapped his arms around her, he watched her closely, every muscle in his body held in suspense. That night when her father passed away he knew that she was not going to be okay, not for awhile. Because that night, her chin stayed glued to her chest.
It was months before he saw it raised again, that stubborn and lovely angle of her chin.
And now, as she stood before him looking so small, he felt the same fear as he’d felt that night. Crowds of people circumnavigated them, speeding in all directions as if on fast forward, yet the two of them were in a standstill, locked in this soundless conversation. The terminal was noisy around them, but the thousands of words created a meaningless white noise hum. Planes took off and landed, each announced by the mechanical voice on the intercom.
When he could no longer stand to return the heat of her orbs set ablaze, he inspected the height of her chin: neutral, paralyzed, frozen, bearing the possibility that she might not be okay. And this time, the fault would not lie with a disembodied voice over a crackling telephone line. Instead, the blame would be his. For in reality relationships come and relationships go, and disaster occurs when two lives collide so passionately… and so very temporarily.
“Well, then,” she said. Her eyes found her toes, and he watched in horror as her chin followed suit.
Pupils still attached to her feet as they moved, she turned to go away.
He spoke her name.
She stopped, turning back slightly, not looking at him. Instead, she seemed to be inspecting the ground near where him.
Then she walked, while he still stood rooted to the spot. Despite the airport’s clamor, all he could hear was the sound of her suitcase’s rollers as they rotated against the marble floor. Going away, far away.
As she arrived at her gate, she handed her boarding pass to the attendant. But just before she disappeared through the doorway and into his past, he saw it.
The subtle elevating of her chin.
And then she was gone.
We were talking about the phenomenon that happens to really unattractive men when we get to know them better. Over time, they become more and more handsome, and before long their personality melds with their appearance. It’s not as though Brad Pitt is any less hot, it’s that Brad Pitt is a little less relevant.
Sarah Overvoll stated it perfectly. “It’s like the molecules on his face rearrange a little bit every time I talk to him. He’s definitely more appealing than the last time I saw him.”
Maybe God built at least a good portion of us women not to be shallow. In which case I couldn’t take credit for my ability to evaluate independently of externals. But either way, men should feel blessed.
With every loss of relationship, friends, do not despair. Mourn for a time, but soon praise the Lord, though your heart may not feel it. For through your loss, you have gained much. You have gained a little more wisdom and knowledge, and a few more notes to write on your heart, “Look for more of these qualities,” and perhaps even, “Less of these,” for the next one. Praise Him for the laughter, but also for the less joyous times, for it is these that pushed you toward this destination - and have no doubt, it is a good one. Thank Him for the valuable friendship, whether it was for a season or continues for a lifetime. And have courage, for the Lord knows the [even better] plans He has for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, to give you hope and a future. (Jeremiah 29:11).
o. hallelujah.: Balancing Opposite Sex Friendships 
My dearest twenty-one year old girl,
This letter may come as a hurtful surprise to you, but please, keep reading. I know that right now you don’t understand boundaries between a man and a woman. You’re not even sure yet why, when and how they exist. And right now you’re naive to the fact…
1. “Dating for marriage” means “you know you’re going to marry the person before you start dating them.”
2. If you’ve been dating for a year or more, you’re probably going to get married.
3. If you take a girl out for coffee, she’s immediately examining her ring finger with a diamond in mind. *
4. You’re really lame if you come to Bible college while under consideration of the possibility of marriage sometime in the next four years. *
5. If you kiss before you’re married, you’re probably having sex. And as all good Bible students, we KNOW what the Bible says about sex before marriage.
* Not to say that some girls AREN’T……. but this sentence probably does NOT represent the entire female population.
** A lot of people get married in college (even secular ones, GASP!). What else do you expect out of several hundred young men and women in their hormonal prime in the company of like-minded good Christian counterparts who are all heading into some sort of mission field or another? Bible college students are in a better position than either of my siblings, who resorted to online dating after several failed attempts at finding someone decent.
General disclaimer: I address general attitudes, not yours specifically. I’m sure the attitudes listed here aren’t yours, just everybody else’s, because you don’t have any bad, stereotypical attitudes.
I think Andie from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days said it best. “I love you… but I don’t have to like you right now!”
It’s a relief and a burden. We don’t have to like everybody around us all the time. Whew! But it is still our responsibility to treat them with love. In action when not in feeling. We’re capable of this because of God’s perfect example of agape in the way He loves us.
I think we like this concept.
In theory, not in action.
Because what happens when people don’t agape back? What happens when you spend so much time investing your time and heart into relationships - whether agape, fileo, or both - and nobody gives back? Leaving you feeling empty, unloved, and tired. Tired of trying so hard, for nothing. Is it even worth it?
I suppose that’s what I’ve wondered, subconsciously, maybe for years. What’s the point in investing in relationships when all you end up with is disappointment? Things end. People move away. Good friends get into relationships. Everybody gets busy. Your friends assign priorities, and you’re not at the top.
Well. That stings.
I have a better idea.
What if agape means more than just loving somebody in action?
Agape flows from God’s perfect example. And His perfect example is that He is the only one in existence to ever be there 100% of the time. To always be listening. To always care. He’s the only one that will never let us down or disappoint us. He’s the only one that can actually fulfill our needs.
Upon acknowledging that He’s the only one that will give that to us, we release all of our other human relationships of the expectations we’ve been placing on them.
Maybe, just maybe, and this is pure conjecture here… but maybe agape’s got more dimensions than Andie first thought.
Maybe agape is understanding that people are going to let you down, disappoint you, never fulfill you. Maybe it’s not expecting anybody but God to meet any of your needs. If we let God fill us with contentment and peace every day - meaning, putting our relationship with Him first, and never ceasing to spend time with Him - then, with our needs met, we can invest and not care whether we get any of that investment back.
We can agape freely without worry or disappointment or emptiness.
Isn’t that what agape should be about? Love, in action, without any terms and conditions?
Because that’s what God’s been doing this entire time. While we continue to go about filling our God-shaped holes with people and being disappointed when they don’t. Can’t.
My freshman year of college is drawing to a close, and all I can think is, “Wow, Mom, you were right.”
That day, a week after I’d already paid the nonrefundable deposit to Colorado State University, already gotten my housing assignment and signed up for a meal plan - that was when the really friendly girl called from Moody Spokane. I’d referred to it as the Secret Moody Bible Cult a few times, because nobody knew it existed (and still no one does). We’re Moody’s best-kept secret.
The boy who feared the future.
A work of fiction about the weight of unanswered questions.
It would have been July. A summer night that brings back nostalgic memories. An evening that provoked a journal entry that she recently stumbled upon. It went something like this: “Lawn chairs and the Pittsburgh Symphony only ten feet away; I can see the violinists’ bows moving from the corner of my eye. The music crescendoes and suddenly the world explodes into a million colors and sounds. “Thunk, whistle, POP!” The sky rains sparks, and the courthouse has erupted in multi-hued light and fireworks. He and I have goofy grins on our faces.”
“It’s kind of silly to avoid her hometown just because I know that this summer won’t be entirely too different from last summer, just missing one gigantic piece of the puzzle… isn’t it?” she ponders now. She’s not sure she wants to know the answer, because she doesn’t know if she can change the way she feels either way.
“No,” a friend replies. “One person can change your life drastically.”
Just how much can we change one another? Did anything she said last summer change the way he thought? Does he often avoid her hometown as well?
Because the place has their footprints all over it.
Two feet in sandals standing behind the counter at the café downtown. His were Vans on the other side. She would stand and fold towels, and he’d wait for his order. He knew just the time to come in, when it was almost dead and she’d have time to talk.
There’s that street that curves away from the house and eventually circles back. The footprints are everywhere, from the times they both jogged by here in tennis shoes, to the times when they’d go on walks on warm summer evenings: his, Vans, as usual. Hers a heel, a ball, and five bare toes. They delved as deep as conversation would go, cutting deep with their words into places within them that they’d never let anyone else see.
“Fear and failure are my two best friends,” he told her one night as they strolled arm-in-arm, creating more footprints to be left behind. He was ridiculously casual in the way he said it, but she knew him well enough to catch the tremor behind his voice.
She was silent for a few moments, digesting that. She didn’t know quite what he meant, and she feared the answer. “If you don’t shoot high, you don’t have to try?”
He shook his head. “No… It’s more like… If I don’t shoot high, I don’t have to worry about putting forth my best effort, failing, and being inadequate.”
Something happens when two people share their worst fears with one another. That night, he ceased to be the confident boy in skinny jeans and a hat that shouted, quite literally, “Hi!”
He was just another human being, like her, that had seen the possibilities… and feared.
That afternoon in the park, napping in the golden rays on sprawled pillows and blankets, when the backdrop of sunshine had quickly changed into stormy skies like lights on a stage—she didn’t know what to say to his thoughts that found their way to her almost-sleeping ears. In a whisper as if he were afraid to break the stillness, he said, “Sometimes I fear I’ll be just as dirt poor as my parents, and I’ll end up right where they are, living off of food stamps.”
She planted a quick kiss on his temple. “You’ve got so much going for you, but negativity won’t get you anywhere.” It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten down on himself. She wouldn’t allow him to be daunted by the future, even though the thought of it sent her own stomach into knots. After all, just a few short weeks from now and she’d be packing all her belongings into her car and driving several states away for college. Very far away from him. Very far away from everything she’d ever known. Further away than anybody in her family had ever dared to go.
If only she could have known that eight months later she’d be standing on top of the cliff she’d just scaled, feeling as though she should be victorious. But she can only think of him, that man that taught her everything she knows about climbing. The rocks themselves remind her of him, the man who she wishes she could hate but is only reminded of the deep way in which she understands him. Fists clenched tight, she wishes she could blame him for running back to all of his vices the moment that sorrow came calling. But she can’t.
Because he was the one that, on the nights when his thoughts managed to form words, would hand to her the very questions that had been plaguing her mind for years.
She still sits at the same desk as she had that night, when she’d held the phone to her ear with shaking hands, tears streaming down her cheeks as she got out her scissors and determined to cut the heartstrings that had been stretched several hundred miles too far. There had been things she’d learned being far away that she’d wanted to share with him. They were things that would have no choice but to change the hearts and minds of two lost souls that felt as though they were rubberbanded to their sin, running toward the Lord as hard as they could, but always springing back. “You are a beloved child of God that has no need to fear condemnation, and you have the ability to approach the throne of God with confidence.”
“You don’t know how much I hate hearing that.” It sounded as thought he said it through gritted teeth.
She sobbed harder. His anger took her off guard. “I don’t understand. Why would you hate hearing that?”
“Because I’ve tried for so long to believe it, to no avail. But I just can’t.”
The next day would show her bruised lower lip from that moment when she’d bit down hard, trying to hold back the throb. She won’t ever recall having cried so embarrassingly hard ever again. She was at a loss for the answer, for again he had presented to her the very issue that had for years made her heart pump pain rather than blood.
For so long they’d thought themselves orphans, lost sheep that the Shepherd didn’t seem too inclined to find, this time.
Contrary to how they lived and thought and breathed, they knew all the right answers. But sometimes, “God loves you,” just isn’t enough to keep away from the drugs, the alcohol, the sex, the things that dull the pain just for now.
She was several states away when she hung up the phone, surrounded by Bible college students that wouldn’t allow her to do anything reckless. He, on the other hand, was in small-town Pennsylvania, just a few more footsteps from the very things that he knew could soothe the cracks in his broken heart—the things that felt good when “God loves you,” remained trapped in the confines of his brain, struggling to make it those eighteen inches south to the freshly-broken organ leaking blood and tears and raw, unquenchable hurt.
She has the answers now, for they’ve managed to make the journey from her head to her heart. Yet it feels entirely selfish to have found them when she doubts she will ever share them with him. For though his footprints will always be there, he is far away—leaving his questions forever lurking in the Colorado air, black, plaguing, unanswered.
In the end, she is still afraid of endless summer nights in her hometown, because this summer, the word “endless” won’t be quite as wonderful as it was then.
Neither him nor his footprints own her hometown.
But his unanswered questions do.
You don’t know how many times I re-wrote this. I had several nice, well-written introductions and hooks, but never anything beyond that. I’ve been writing in sputtering stops and goes like my dad’s old white ’79 Chevy, with only an idea of where I’m going but no clue as to how to get there. Or, more appropriately due to recent experiences, driving my Lexus when all I can see out of the windshield is anxious white snowflakes plummeting chaotically to the ground, illuminated in the occasional beam of a streetlight.
Today I’m going to spit it out. Haphazardly at best. Fair warning.
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