Lately I’ve been thinking about real love. The one that remains. The kind that endures. The one who will sit beside you for hours in a hospital, be there when your parents grow sick and pass away. The kind that will handle the errands and put away the dishes because you’re too tired from the day to move. The kind that is present not just in laughter, ease, play and fun.

It’s easy to love when it’s all going well. When you’re feeling butterflies. When you’re pretzeled together on the cozy couch laughing at your favorite Ben Stiller movie. When you get a promotion. When you are in good health. When there’s plenty and it all feels certain.

Yeah, anyone can love that.

But what about when the clouds swallow the sun? When your body aches and the room smells of Vicks and Bengay? When income isn’t steady? When the phone rings with the news that family is unwell? When the bills cascade across the kitchen table and suddenly life is not photogenic?

What then?


Man, I’m a sucker for the magic. For the awe and wonder of life. But can I also be okay with the reality too? With the darkness? With the difficult chapters? Can I also love then?