Our Intertwined Hands

Winter is coming on fast;
we fall facedown in the snow,
feel the cold and the warmth
of our intertwined hands.
Gloves blocking your touch,
and we feel the rush
as time flies by,
as time flies by.

And the chill in my heart
isn't caused by the wind,
taking risks on one end
and none for our sakes.
As it slips from our hands,
and we understand,
our time runs out,
our time runs out.

And as we say goodbye,
the tears spring from our eyes,
but we're careful to leave
no stains on our shirts.
As 'we' turns to the past,
'we' beg the moment to last
as we kiss goodbye,
as we kiss goodbye.

Separation is cold
like the white winter snow;
it refuses to cease
(and) Spring is obsolete.
We put our heads in our hands
as ice covers the land;
lie facedown in the snow,
facedown in the snow.

And finally the earth begins to cry
with warmth and tears to break the heart of ice.
With our tentative first steps we look around
and fall facedown,
we fall facedown,
facedown.
(and pray)

I write you a letter or two
with my bare left hand.
Though our future is gone
I can still feel the warmth
of our intertwined hands
and of you in my plans;
don't tell me goodbye,
don't say goodbye.

Springtime is coming again,
and you're smiling, my friend.
My heart's on my sleeve;
don't tell me to leave.
And when these lyrics are done,
we'll salute the sun,
our hands intertwined,
our hands intertwined.

A Social Network Christmas

It's Christmas break. I'm sitting in my family room at home, alone, looking at the Christmas tree and thinking, "I haven't wrapped my presents." I don't think about how grateful I am that my family gets to celebrate Christmas about three times this year with relatives. I don't think about goodwill toward men. I don't think about much else, actually, except the fact that I haven't wrapped my presents.



Snapping out of it, I thought to myself, "Where's your Christmas spirit?" I just wasn't getting into it. Christmas felt a little bah, humbug this year.



So I got on Facebook (yeah, that'll bring me Christmas spirit). And to my surprise...it did.



A friend of mine had posted a video--A Social Network Christmas (http://www.godtube.com/watch/?v=9M1F2CNU) on GodTube (yes, they have a God version of YouTube). Interested, I clicked the link and found myself witnessing the Christmas story in a very new and unique way--through Joseph's Facebook page.



Suddenly, there was a lump in my throat--Mary's status: "I'm pregnant! Conceived by the Holy Spirit!" Mary's trust in God's favor was obvious. Joseph's status: "I don't know what's going on. I'm hurting confused." Joseph's doubt and hurt put into words.



This video really put things into perspective for me. When Joseph posts, "IT'S A BOY!" someone asks what they're naming him. "O Come, O Come, Immanuel" plays in the background.



"He shall be called



Jesus"



At the name of the child, the music swells up--"Rejoice!"



It's a command that's hard to ignore. I had tears in my eyes as I closed the page, feeling Joseph's confusion and Mary's steadfast optimism, how grateful they must have been to Elizabeth and Zechariah for their support, how awe-struck they must have felt when the baby came, this tiny blessing for which they had been specifically chosen by God.



How it must have felt for Mary--she conceived before she was married, thought she might have to go it alone when Joseph considered breaking the engagement, had almost no one to turn to, and yet had an unwavering faith in God. I imagine a vision of an angel is hard to forget. And yet when she held that little baby in her arms, how overwhelmingly blessed she must have felt. Most mothers can relate to that feeling, I think, that thought that despite how scary the future is, in that moment, holding your baby, it's as though everything is worth the effort. Imagine, though, how much more incredible it must have been for Mary, who wasn't carrying just any child, but part of God's very existence in her womb. And to hold him, Jesus, in her arms, this slice of divinity that was entrusted to her--I understand now why Mary treasured these things in her heart.



And how it must have felt for Joseph--he was betrothed to a woman who claimed to have conceived by the Holy Spirit (now that's a new story for ya!), and just when he was thinking of breaking off the engagement, an angel of God (I mean, a personal messenger of the God you believe and trust) appeared to him in a dream. "You're not running out on her when she needs you most." And suddenly, there's nothing else to do but trust God.



Do you realize how incredible this was? These circumstances aren't really ones to be faked; God put a little bitty baby in Mary's womb, a miniature version of a human, a fetus who would change the entire course of history, theology, religion, and everyone on earth.



Don't you think that's enough to occupy our thoughts over Christmas? The only reason we give gifts is because we're imitating the Great Gift God gave us. And what a poor imitation it is.



And here I am, thinking about how I'm not in the Christmas spirit and I still need to wrap presents.

A Letter to Dead Roses

A Letter to Dead Roses


Dear Dead Roses,

I saw you in the trash today,
wilted next to baby’s breath,
which was already stale in the air.
I wondered who you belonged to,
and if they loved how beautiful
you were in your prime,
before death struck.
I wondered if they mourned for you
when you began to darken,
your vibrant shades of red
turning into a purple, a red-hued black.
I mourned for you
when I saw you there,
drooping and dry.
You looked tired, devoid of peace
but unwilling to fight any longer.
You looked the way I felt,
and I mourned for you.

Rest in peace.

Sincerely.





It began as prose. I turned it into a poem. It seemed more fitting.

Her Tears

A sloppy copy of a song I wrote called "Her Tears".


Her Tears

Seventeen years, she's been trying so hard
For her daddy's approval, she's been playing her cards
So carefully; her honesty is taking her down,
'Cause honestly, he's never around.

(Chorus, variation)
And she cries, cries, cries, cries, cries,
Clinging to her crown,
'Cause she knows, oh boy, she knows,
He'll never know her now,
No, he'll never know her now.

Eight years ago she got along with him just fine,
but the move would take toll in just a matter of time.
Six years she'd look back and wonder what went wrong,
Between her brother and her, what went wrong?

And she cries, cries, cries, cries, cries,
To Christ, her solid ground,
And she hides, oh, yes, she hides
The bruises on her heart,
The bruises on her crown.

Seventeen's confident, eighteen's a misfit,
Looking for love, so she thought she'd try it.
Four months, a cheater; Two weeks, too honest.
Alone again with a broken promise.

And she cries, cries, cries, cries, cries,
Her failures written in red,
And she tries, tries, oh, she tries
To stand back up again,
Put her crown back on her head.

She called him "best friend," without a doubt.
Trustworthy, loving, she couldn't do without.
The call came fast, the moving trucks pulled up;
Six years and their time was up.

And she cries, cries, cries, cries, cries,
More lonely than before,
And she seeks, Oh, God, she seeks
The Christ she knew before,
Where's the Christ she knew before?

She was twenty and single, halfway through school,
The call came cutting through the autumn cool.
He'd been running alone, his face was red,
Before anybody knew it, he was dead.

And she cries, cries, cries, cries, cries,
Beating on her father's grave,
And she screams, "Dear God!" She screams;
Flings her crown among the dead,
God's silent as the dead.

He's twenty-eight with an engagement ring,
His beautiful bride like the daughter of a king.
The light in his eyes as if all wrong was right,
She'd never seen such a beautiful sight.

And she cries, cries, cries, cries, cries,
With a bittersweet smile.
And with joy, joy, she lets go
Of her happy brother dear,
Wishing daddy could be here.

She'd known him for years and never thought twice.
He'd found her crown again and gave a word of advice,
"I'll hold it for you, so you won't hurt again,
and you can have my heart instead."

She didn't think twice and she didn't look back,
while he cleaned up and polished the crown that she lacked.
One day he set it gently upon her head,
Then he knelt before her and said,

"Marry me
I know your past, so don't look back.
Marry me
You have my heart, so keep it, please, and I promise you

Whatever we go through,
Whatever comes at you,
Whatever brings you down,
I'll always be around,

So please, please, please, please, please,
Under God who hears and sees...
Marry me."

And she cries, cries, cries, cries, cries,
With his ring upon her hand,
And she smiles, that gorgeous smile,
That God wanted her to know,
He always wanted her to know.


(End)


Of course, it's up for interpretation, but it was written as an exaggerated account of the events that cause tears in a girl's life. You'll notice the characters are all the men in her life, which I used as a theme leading to the last verse.

Some other symbols include the crown, which is supposed to represent her confidence, her sense of self. Through each situation, her crown begins with her clinging to it tightly, then it is bruised, tarnished, lost, thrown away, et cetera, to indicate that she's affected by each situation. She suffers joys and sorrows;
The disapproval and neglect from her father in verse one,
indications of abuse from an insecure brother in verse two,
rejection from relationships,
the loss of her best friend due to moving,
her father's death and what seems like neglect from God Himself,
her brother's marriage (which is a joy, by the way, not a sorrow ;) ),
and, finally, her own engagement.

God's there throughout it all, but (as is frustrating to many Christians going through a rough spot), it seems as though God is silent when she most needs Him to speak.

The Most

A question posed by one of my friends.

“What does the person who means most to you actually mean to you?
Think of the person who means most to you, then ask yourself why? or what? What is it that makes a person more dear to you than others, even the others who are very dear to you?”


It’s difficult to say what a person means to me, since the very term meaning is what we use to describe a person’s value to us. When someone is of great value to you, they mean a lot to you. That word, “to mean,” is the word that precedes just how much a person is worth.

How do you measure a person’s value in your life? How do you attach a price to them and call them “the person who means most” to you?

There are many people in my life who mean a lot to me. Each of them has their own unique values, their own weight of importance, their own species of worth, which makes the question not “what do they mean to you,” or “what makes them the most dear,” for those questions are inapplicable. The people who mean most to me, mean the most to me in entirely different ways.

And who, if they are truly blessed by God, can claim that only one person means the very most to them? I find that I cannot describe a single person whose existence means so much more to me than anyone else’s. The only being who can claim that kind of a position is Christ, and He isn’t really in the same league. The others, however, those who have some sort of value to me, are dear to me due to their characters. They are the people who I have had the opportunity to be with during some of the hardest times of both of our lives. They are the people whose potentials I have been able to see a long ways off, and watched them grow into it through every storm God threw at them. They are the people who have been able to trust me and whom I have been able to trust. They are the people who I know best, and that is simply it. It is not necessarily because they are better people, or because they are more talented people. It is solely because I know them best, and they know me best. And in such relationships, you become dear to one another by honing one another’s character.

Maybe it’s even simpler than that. Maybe it’s the exchange. Maybe it’s the idea that you have become indebted to them for everything they have become to you. Like, a mother. A mother is bound to love you unconditionally, and no matter how much she wants to throw you out or scream and rip her hair out and stop spending money on you, she doesn’t, and you are therefore indebted to her. Furthermore, she not only refrains from doing all those things to you, but she does love you and gives you shelter, speaks to you softly, keeps her hair in place (lol) and spends money on you. Not only does she not react strongly and harshly to every wrong deed of yours, but she actually takes the time to teach you how to behave and act in society, teaches you kindness and gentleness, and how to deal with difficult people. You are indebted to her, and she has become invaluable to you.

Maybe that’s not so simple after all.

Well, that’s my response.

Turn

Turn all thy thoughts to music, love,
Thy jealousies to verse.
Wait patiently upon the day
When death may meet its worst.

Turn all thy dreams to notes, my dear,
Write passion on a staff,
That all may see, adoringly,
Thy heart, thy soul, thy wrath.

Turn sorrow into art, O child,
Paint pictures for the world.
Express yearning for unseen things,
Scrolls yet to be unfurled.

Turn all thy joy to song, Beloved,
Delight caused not by things.
You mend the hole within thy soul
With the Lamb, thy hope, thy King.

Turn hatred into love, my dear,
And thy love express in rhyme.
For all our work is meaningless
When comes the end of time.

Turn emptiness to faith, my love,
Turn black souls back to light.
Show them the way back to Christ's way;
Turn death back into life.

To the Pianoforte

My little ivory keys, are you listening to me?
My wooden music box, will you hear my troubled thoughts?
My paper, creamy white, will you bring my mind some light?
My gentle pencil gray, will you hold my heart today?

Aimless and wandering, with no certain path,
I find myself consistently giving in to wrath.
I'm frustrated and lonely, though I'm telling you I'm fine;
If this is my future, where do I resign?

An undecided future, like a thick surrounding mist;
Untouchable, indifferent, although I shake my fist,
And so with nothing left, I sit down and count back time,
Waiting for it all to come crashing down.

There's no more use for poetry, no rhythm to this rhyme.
It's all been written down before, so why am I wasting time?
Though so young and inexperienced, still I feel so old,
Battling the sun’s warm rays despite my hate for cold.

The music doesn't come to me as it once did before,
When God and I were close, and I wanted nothing more.
A roadblock, a missing word, the ever-restless mind,
Unable to focus, leaving scraps of poetry behind.

Worthlessness haunts me, though I'm blessed with many a skill,
With my future dim and cloudy, I've no strength, I've no will.
I want to charge through its indifference, but at once I cannot move,
Bound by everything I know I'm sure to lose.

My little ivory keys, are you listening to me?
My wooden music box, will you hear my troubled thoughts?
My paper, creamy white, will you bring my mind some light?
My gentle pencil gray, will you write me a song today?

Gladiator

We are the Gladiator's feet.

Before the games begin, we wait impatiently, sandal-clad and tapping a rhythmless tattoo. When we are released, we run from confinement, our soles slapping the hot sand and grinding gravel. We pause, shifting our stance to meet an oncoming attacker. Shuffle, shuffle, shift, shuffle, shuffle. We dance lightly, constantly rebalancing the weight above us, the weight that determines our action. When a body falls before us, we run to our next victim, our next opponent, our next challenge. We run eagerly, knowing nothing else but the shuffle, shuffle, shift of attack and run. We are the Gladiator's feet.

We are the Gladiator's arms.

We flex and relax in anticipation, eagerly awaiting our chance. As the feet take off, we pump, pushing the weight further. The attacker barely focuses on anything but what we do. We rise, the hands clutching the weapon. Tense, clenched, and pumping with adrenaline, we hack down, feeling the impact of our weapon as it strikes with accuracy. We relax, but our shoulders swivel, taking the rest of the weight with it. We swing around, hacking, slicing, catching our weight when it falls. We catch the blows of other arms, blocking, bruising, bleeding. The adrenaline does not allow us to feel the pain, pushing us instead to continue to fight. We begin to grow weary, the blood thick in our veins; we rise too slowly, we swing too late. But still we fight, for it is our duty. We are the Gladiator's arms.

I am the Gladiator's torso.

I am ignored for the most part, but I am most needed. Strong and enduring, I have spent long years in hunger, in pain, and exposed. The back of me is bare, open to attack; the muscles that are so defined bear scars from lashing, without an ounce of fat to protect me. My front is hard, like rock with a skin cover, from years and years of fighting for my existence. Though the arms swing and the feet run, it is I that keeps the weight in balance, I that strains under an attacker's sword. I am the most aimed for, for it is I who protects the heart. My bones create a cage, and that cage must be protected. And so I must be deft, agile. I shy away from the swordpoint, I sacrifice my balance to keep the heart safe. I suffer wounds, scratches and deeper injuries, but still I go on, constantly shifting in order to maintain balance. Sweat stings my wounds, hot, sticky, painful. It is my pain that is most easily ignored, yet so greatly important to survival. I am the Gladiator's torso.

We are the Gladiator's hands.

As we wait, we nervously clutch our weapon, feeling the rough leather of the sword's handle against our palms. We wipe the sweat off against our simple tunic, comforted slightly by the feel of the cloth. Just before we are released to fight, we fold around the leather handle of the sword, a symbol to fight against distraction as the head bows and the eyes close. When we are finished, we raise our sword, determined and deadly. The scars on the back of us remind us why we are here, and as the feet take us into the hot sun and the arena, we begin our own kind of dance. We do not forget who we are. We are the Gladiator's hands.

I am the Gladiator's brow.

Sweat trickles down me in the head and threatens to enter the eyes, which would sting and blind them. The hands wipe it away. I am broad and lined; the hair that used to cover me has been shaved, causing me to burn in the sun. I do not fight. I merely wait, anticipating the end of the battle, for if the battle ends and I still feel, I am offered a crown of laurel leaves, which indicate the body's victory. I exist for the purpose of holding a crown, and that purpose is enough. I am the Gladiator's brow.

We are the Gladiator's eyes.

Flicking back and forth, blinking constantly, we betray our nervousness. The hands save us from the trickling sweat which threatens to blind, but nothing can save us from the fear that will not allow us to rest. We examine the men around the body, noticing weakness and strength, nervous habits and calm collectedness. Some are confident. Some are not. We turn forward again, closing briefly as the mind commands, then opening at the sound of a metallic click. We are being released. The men and our body charge out, and we flicker from attacker to attacker, noticing anything and everything but their faces. We purposefully glance around fallen bodies as though they are not there. Squinting against the bright sun and its reflection in the sand, we take a moment to glance up at the crowd. But our duty is not forgotten, and we look away, finding our arms and hands another attacker. We are the Gladiator's eyes.

I am the Gladiator's mind.

It is I who commands the body, who swings, dodges, runs, falls, dives, kills. The body's survival depends on me. I am the one who processes the information the eyes give me and produces a solution, resulting in commands to the rest of the body. I am quick, clever. I am proud. But it is also I who remembers the body as it used to be, before it was forced into this form of slavery. I remember the feet before they knew the shuffle, shuffle, shift of attack. I remember how they used to run freely, without stopping, simply to feel the dirt under their soles, to feel the warm sand between their toes. I remember the arms before they bled and bruised. I remember how they used to be thin, and how their subtle strength used to haul the body up the tree it climbed. I remember the torso before it became a cage, before its back was scarred, before it suffered. I remember how little it had been exposed to the sun, and how it used to be softer, because there was no need for muscle. I remember the hands before they became calloused and hard, before they knew only the roughest material, the hottest sand, and the lukewarm water. I remember the feel of soft skin as my hands stroked my wife's face for the last time, and the smooth wood of my carvings. I remember when the brow was covered by dark locks, and had no use for a crown. I remember when it bore nothing more than my mother's loving kiss and my father's blessing. I remember when my eyes knew nothing of blood and death, when all they knew were the faces of those I loved and the beauty of the earth around me. All this I remember until I am told to fight. Then, I am the Gladiator's mind.

I am the Gladiator's heart.

I am protected by a cage of steel, by muscles made of rock, by deadly arms and swift feet. It is I who beats relentlessly before the doors to the arena are opened. Though I have no part in the fight, my purpose comes later. It is I who causes the eyes to well up with tears when the mind remembers the fall of a recent comrade. It is I who overflows with compassion when I see the wounds of the other gladiators, and I who causes the mind to decide to help them. It is I who can go days without food in order to feed an ill brother. I am overwhelmed with sorrow when the mind remembers how things used to be, and I who longs for the past. I am what keeps the Gladiator human. I am the Gladiator's heart.

I am the Gladiator.

My story has no importance. I fight, I kill, I survive. This is my existence.
I stand in the doorway of the arena, tapping my feet, rubbing my hands on my tunic, closing my eyes for a quick prayer. My heart pumps blood, adrenaline makes me nervous and eager. I am ready for battle. My mind is clear and focused, and I can think of nothing else. Though I am talented and popular in the arena, I loathe the killing. I avoid looking at the faces of my victims as they die, or they haunt my dreams.
The arena doors open, and I am released, my sword deadly and prepared. I cut down my first victim without a fight; he is inexperienced. I chop, hack, slice, kill. A delicate dance evolves as my feet shuffle in the sand and gravel. A body falls, and I turn away. My stomach lurches and I can feel the sweat dripping from my neck. I pause, certain that I am in no danger, and look toward the stands, finding the King's box quickly. For a moment, I consider the barely visible faces that watch me carefully. Some of the members of the box cheer; I can see that the King is cheering. The Queen is not; she sits gravely in her seat, eyes forward. I hear a noise behind me and return to the fight.

My opponents are dead; my comrades lay dying as well. The King leaves his box to make his way down, finding me the only one still standing. Smiling and applauding, he announces me the winner, grabbing my wrist with his pale, soft hand and raising it above our heads. The crowd erupts in applause as the Queen steps forward, the crown of cool laurel leaves in her gentle hands. Her face is stony, her eyes are lowered as she raises the crown, capturing the attention of the crowd. I kneel silently, wearily before her and she lowers the crown onto my brow. As I stand, she curtsies, acknowledging my talent. Our eyes meet, and there is a mutual understanding that we live in a world we cannot change. I turn away, longing but afraid of such an understanding, and raise my sword to the crowd. As the stands once again erupt with deafening applause, it only says one thing: You are the Gladiator.

I am the Gladiator, I repeat to myself. I have been made a Gladiator, and a Gladiator I will remain until the day of my death. Though my body serves me well, it will age. I will grow weary, slow, tired. In this arena, I will meet my death, and I am the Gladiator until that time.

I am the Gladiator, I say again, looking at the Queen. My hand grips my sword as I raise it once again to the sky.

I am the Gladiator.

Do You Understand?

Do you understand the frustration of trying to get someone to realize that life is always worth living?
Do you understand how hard it is to convince them?

God made you, gave you life, whether you like it or not, and He's got a reason for it. Don't you dare question whether life is worth living. Your life is more precious than His own. He holds you in that regard. He's been watching you since your parents got married, He's been guiding your friends, your enemies, your surroundings, just to protect you, to keep you safe. You might suffer a few small injuries, but your life is much more valuable than your flawless skin. You've taken a few lessons home with visible results. But to turn a blind eye to this, to forget those lessons and decide that God never had a reason for you...how that must hurt God. Do you realize that? Do you understand?

Do you understand how many people are fearing for your life right now?
Do you understand what kind of heartache you're causing?

These people, all these people you think won't even notice that you're gone, are the people who treasure you. How could you even think you have the right to take yourself away from them? Do you know how much it hurts them that you think they don't love you? It makes them wonder what they did wrong, what they failed to do to show you just how much they love you. They would put themselves in your place just to keep you from suffering this kind of pain, this kind of insecurity. Do you realize that? Do you understand?

Have you ever been in such a situation? Did you ever want to take a hurting person out of their situation? I know you have, and I know you remember just how you felt, that overflowing love and compassion that you tried to reach them with. This is precisely the position we are in now. And you, refusing the lifelines, are the hurting one.

No one knows the answer you're looking for. I don't think even you know. You just want everyone else to be wrong so you can be right. You've predicted what kinds of answers they'll give and you've already rejected them. You don't want to be understood, you don't want to give up your pride and rebellion and unhappiness because you don't know how. How do you give up the thing that's giving you such a power over your peers, over your authority? How can you even imagine living without it? While you're holding onto it, it's impossible. You can't see life without being able to manipulate things, make things go your way. Do you realize that? Do you understand?

Do you understand that there's no right answer?
Do you understand that there's nothing we can do to stop you?

You've rejected the medicine, and now all the power is in your hands. You can do what you like, and we're powerless to stop you. What will you do with that power? Eventually the high of having its unlimited source wears off, and you won't want it anymore. It's then that you truly don't have a reason to live, not because there isn't one, but because you've thrown aside those reasons. God, family, friends, love, everything that is good in life you've just tossed aside for your little rampage of power. The funny thing is that the reasons are still there. All those reasons you didn't think were good enough.
Do you realize that? Do you understand?

Do you understand now?

-C. (2009)

What is Love? (part 2)

What is love?

It’s a question I haven’t answered just yet, but I’ve been getting a better idea of it lately.

I gave up dating. Yeah, it sounds kind of funny for a sophomore in college to be saying something so dramatic, and, to be honest, a little unrealistic. It isn’t, though, is it? I’m not doing it to be a dramatic teenager who’s gone through one too many bad relationships. That’s not it at all. So let me give you the background behind this.

In middle school, I decided I wouldn’t date until college. It wasn’t my father’s rule—his limit was 16. No, it was my own rule. Why did I do it? Because it was perfectly sensible. I didn’t want to date until I was prepared to marry.

Of course, by the time I reached 11th grade and was allowed to enter the world of available singles, I had changed my mind. I dated a young fellow named Trevor and didn’t mind having a “boyfriend,” but honestly, I knew it wasn’t love. In the back of my mind, every time I said “I love you,” it was followed by a feeling that the words were incomplete. They ought to have been followed by words like, “but I know I’d never marry you,” or “but I can’t even see us getting through this summer.” I knew it was incomplete, but I continued in it anyway. I had never had a boyfriend—what did I know? What if this is how it was supposed to be?

When that relationship ended, I vowed, once again, not to date until college. This time, I kept my vow. I refused more than one boy who asked for my affection, and I did not feel guilty doing it. I knew I was doing the right thing.

Once I was in college, I fell quickly into a relationship with a cute, friendly young man. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to get me seriously thinking about whether or not I wanted to be dating. Essentially, I knew I did not love him, and it bothered me that I would want to be with someone who I knew I did not love and who did not love me.

So I did some thinking. Hah, some—I did a LOT of thinking. I felt like, subconsciously, I was listening to all the stories of my friends, peers, teachers, and elders, and I was coming up with a very curious answer. After considerable thought, I concluded that I would not date.

Again, I’m not just being dramatic because I had been broken up with twice—I genuinely have no desire to date unless it is what God has for me. God’s revealed to me a little bit, a tiny bit about love. Let’s see if I can explain my revelation.

When a person loves another person, it’s not necessarily a romantic love. For example, I love my friend Holt. He is a kind young man, sensible, and strengthened by God, and I admire many of his traits. He inspires me to be better, and I him. It is a mutual relationship in which we both inspire the best of each other. He knows I will love him no matter what he does, but he also knows that I can see his potential.

But he is not someone I will date or marry. I love him, but he is not right for me. Trust me, it’s something you can tell.

So what is love, then? What is it that brings people together in holy matrimony? What is it that makes people stay together for the rest of their lives?

My father had many wise things to say on the topic when I told him I was pulling myself out of the dating populace. I had decided that the love of my life was simply something to leave up to God, which, of course, is not wrong. That has not changed. The inspiration was hearing the stories of my teachers. In several cases, the teachers I know who are very much in love with each other were drawn together by God. It was sort of like “love at first sight,” except so much deeper than what those words imply. It was God-given knowledge that when they met, one of them thought, “That’s the person I’m going to marry.” Even when their mind denied such a thought, the thought remained there, and on their wedding day, I wonder what a holy moment it was when they admitted to each other that it was God that drew them together.

That was my inspiration, that someone would see me one day, and think, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” I fear it will take a lot to convince me, though, which is why only someone sent by God would be able to get me to marry him.

As I said, my father had some interesting things to say to widen my perspective.

There are many people in this world with whom one can make a marriage work. Putting the love part aside, marriage is not just joining two people in love—it’s a commitment. It is a promise to make things work for as long as they both shall live. It is a contract. It has nothing at all to do with love. Love can even come after marriage.

Take an arranged marriage. It is possible to marry someone and learn to love him or her. It is not impossible, and it is only an unwillingness to make it work that will make a marriage fall apart. When two hearts are in agreement, what can stop them? Only each other.

In our society, we don’t have arranged marriages anymore, which is just fine. We have the opportunity and freedom to refuse someone simply because we do not love them. We have the liberty to choose our own partners, and, unfortunately, the liberty to tear apart that partnership and start another one. That is why it is so important that love be a part of the marriage.

There are levels, my father explained. There are levels of compatibility between people. He labeled them: attractiveness, financial position, morals, and values. When two people are compatible in all these levels, it causes much less strain on a relationship. That isn’t to say it’s the magic formula for every relationship to work. It is saying that It is simply easier to make this kind of relationship work. It is possible, too, to make relationships work outside of the levels of compatibility—love’s funny that way. Or at least, what we all think love is, that inexplicable word.

I want to add a fifth component to those four levels. I’ll call it the God-factor, for lack of a better term. To be honest, I could love someone who is perfectly compatible for me, but if God doesn’t give me the OK, I will not marry him. I don’t know how He will make it known to me, but He will.

And so, I have given up dating. I will not further embellish it, but let’s just say it’s a test of sorts, and only one who has God’s blessing will have the endurance and courage to pursue me until I say, “yes.” And if that means I’m single for the rest of my life, I’m okay with that.

So, what is love?

I have no idea.