It was a comment on a photo I posted about a week ago, a thanks for "reminding me it's supposed to feel this way..." The sentiment settled deep in my soul, like dense nuggets of golden truth would sink to the depths of the ocean, and I thought to myself... yes...
YES.
Loving others well is supposed to feel this way. It's supposed to be hard. But the hardness can trick us and make us think we're doing something wrong, that we're messing it up or just not loving well enough.
The thing is, loving well isn't cheap--it always comes with a cost. For God so loved the world that He gave... And He didn't just give us something, an odd trinket he had lying around in the back of a storage closet. He gave us someONE. A person. His most important person in all the universe. And the ultimate price for us to be reunited with God's unconditional love?
It was death. On a cross.
The cost of love is death.
This past weekend with a group of ladies we talked about how to live "unstuck" and embrace life that is truly life in freedom. The key point was to abide in Him. He is the Vine; we are the branches--branches that will bear fruit when they remain connected to Him. {John 15}
Jesus is the ultimate source of life, and we are merely a conduit, the connection between the vine and the fruit. We forget how little of day-to-day life is about us, but rather, God glorified in us. Because if we're doing it for ourselves, we're going to be sorely disappointed when people start noticing our fruit, picking it for themselves, and eating it.
Have you ever played that analogy out to the eventual fate of the fruit? It exists to be harvested and consumed. Its sole purpose is to be offered up to others as a source of sustenance and life. Because loving well has a cost, and always involves a death.
The irony is, we so often miss opportunities throughout our day to give of ourselves because we are so focused on ourselves. It's almost laughable, but I'm sitting here trying to pound out the remainder of this post with background noise to the tune of a crying and hungry baby, never-ending questions about homework, interruptions with details about their day at school, and the occasional "look at this mom!" interspersed with sibling quarrels. Stubborn as I am, I try to press on to the finish anyways, my stress level rising by the minute and any remaining profound thoughts shriveling up into raisins.
So I'm left with rotten fruit. And not surprisingly, no one wants any of it.
I finally decide this just isn't working and begrudgingly set my computer aside. Sigh. They need me, and that has to be okay right now. That has to be enough.
Carrying the baby over to the table, I set him down in his seat and proceeded to warm up his dinner. I listen to the stories about their day while reading aloud the next homework question. When all the papers are complete, I referee sibling rivalry issues and hug away tears until daddy gets home.
How do you love others well?
Hear their stories.
Feed their bellies.
Hold their babies (or let them hold yours).
Dry their tears.
You give of yourself.
Because on the other side of the giving lies the redemption story. And life.
For God so loved that He shall give
His only Son that we may live.