The last month of 2020 arrived today. Some say good riddance, but not me. Not all of it. Surely we’ve learned some lessons too hard to be learned any other way.
Our toy box got too full. We had to turn it over, dump it all out, examine the mess, and hopefully, throw away all but the best, that which delights and encourages and inspires.
Love is not really love
until it circles
with no beginning or end.
If I only love me,
it’s a period. An end.
If I only love others,
leaving myself alone in the dirt,
it’s an apostrophe
without a subject.
If I love God only
but forget about my neighbors
and loathe myself,
it’s merely an asterisk,
a sign that explains nothing,
no substance behind or below.
If I love myself and my neighbors
but forget about God,
I’ve underscored nothing;
I’ve got a line in the sand
that washes away
a thousand times a day.
Even worse, if I love myself
and the God who created me,
but forget about my neighbors,
I’m just a forward slash
(or back slash, depending on
which way I lean),
unstable and divisive.
The only way
for love to be real
is to let it flow round
and round,
a circle that never ends,
from God to me and to
all my neighbors
who become my friends,
and back to God;
a circle
out of time
existing in eternity
in no way bound
by our tiny minds—
a whirlwind
that strengthens
and refreshes itself
with power
that makes everything new.
Amen and amen.
