Love-Lambs

"Taking it all in," means different things for different people. Consider the great island of Manhattan. Some visit awestruck by the architecture and the swarms of bodies climbing into the same subway car.  We might, for example, count how many languages we've heard while perusing the MET, or how many indie-bohemian-chic boutiques hem in Brooklyn's corner. Others are more inclined to feel the energy, experience the rush, or ponder the meaning of one's small self between the hustle and flow of this insomniac of a city. Regardless of our processing preference, I've found most never fail to mention the pizza. Let's be honest- food is a sincere love. 

Which is why I'm writing tonight.  About sincere love.  Like pizza which is most concretely cheese and tomato and starch, and most abstractly an Italian art form, love is best when it's both.  It's entirely simple (mozz+tomato+bread) and entirely complex (who knows anything about Italian cooking?). Give me a brick oven pizzeria in the West Village and a four cheese pie? "Buon Appetito!" I'm in love. 

I haven't found him (you know, not to be cheesy but, "the one,") yet, but I tell myself he is coming as quick as he can. And maybe, just maybe, the hold-up has to do with the fact that he's been stumped by this mozzarella of a mystery too. I once experienced a break-up/breaking off/ending of a dear relationship (read: most painful), in which I pleaded with this person who didn't love me back to tell me why he ever referred to us as "we" if in fact, he didn't love me the way I loved him.  I know it sounds pathetic, but it was the real thing.  He would always talk about OUR plans and where WE were going and what WE would do and how WE were different than everyone else. Did he not understand the significance of these pronouns? "Everybody wants a we!" I cried to him.  It was sad. As he shook his head, I felt bare and I never wanted to see him again.  We did not go together anymore.

 

And that's what it comes down to doesn't it?  Belonging.  Even before the philosophical truth that love is this astoundingly simple and complex wonder of a thing like light or wind or water, we first understand that we belong to our beloved.  I am yours, you are mine. Not like a possessive ownership thing.  Ugh, no. Then it gets all objectified and twisted and narcissistic. But a BElonging, the long-awaited peace tailor-made to fit your longing.

 

I have found myself, these past few weeks, increasingly grateful for the complexity of my God's love for me. He is Abba Father, and Messiah King and Counselor Friend and the Captivated Lover of my soul.  Some nights, I am in such great awe that I might lift up my hands, or open my heart, or pray for purpose with greater purity and gumption than the night before.  Or quite simply, I might just thank Him that He is my shepherd and I am His lamb, and He is gentle with my stubborn bleating self. And I will roll over and sleep well. We cannot help but be found by the depth of His love. It seeks us out, beckoning, "Come, come, you belong with me."   What sweeter words do we know?