I Corinthians 13 (2010 version)

If I can quote John 3:16, the Westminster Catechism, the Apostle’s Creed, and never in all my 40 years utter a four-letter word, but silently judge that neighbor guy for his chronic frown and lack of friendliness, I might as well go tell him to his face that I think he’s a bitter workaholic and I’m glad his grown boys never visit.

And if I have the ability to write stunning prose and witty verse and I read G.K. Chesterton and C.S. Lewis and know the difference between supralapsarianism and infralapsarianism, and if I have enough faith to move mountains, but can’t reach across evangelical lines to embrace my Buddhist sister at Christmastime, I am about as effective as a Bible tract dropped over the Andes mountains on a windy day.

If I give away all my annoying clutter to needy ministries, but hold back that first edition copy of Treasure Island from my best friend’s son who just graduated from college with an English degree because it may be worth something some day and plus I really want it…

and if I offer to watch the babies in the church nursery, but begrudge them each and every graham cracker because I’m missing the sermon which looked pretty promising…

and if I have new people over for lunch after church on Sunday, gush all over them, but never again look them in the eye or give them a call…

and if I care more about what my friends will think about my teenage daughter’s skirt length than the condition of her heart…

I know nothing of love.

Love patiently shows a child how to knock a solid inch of dried mud off his shoes before walking into the kitchen.  It is patient with a little girl who, at almost eight, is still sucking her thumb.  It does not boast even when the book contract is signed, nor does it dwell on husband’s failure at–once again–pinching your skin while rubbing your back.  Love eschews ‘me time’ when time away means missing out on listening to the 13 year old’s frustration over losing half of his school project because there isn’t enough memory on his computer.  It winces when the beloved runt kitty doesn’t make it.  It jumps up and down with her when the teenage daughter gets that long-coveted singing gig.  It puts up with two-week periods when every member of the family is throwing up, believes her son when he says he isn’t texting that one girl, and endures a dining room full of shelves, none of which have room for HER favorite books.

This life will end.  Hearts, lungs, or livers will one day, perhaps sooner than later, give out.  Hair will be lost, (more) wrinkles appear.  Singing voices and the ability to remember what the best move for a five and a three is in a game of backgammon will disappear. Joints will ache and digestive systems will grow sluggish.

But love will never end.

Right now it’s foggy at best.  But one day we will see It face to face and understand just exactly why three appliances always had to break down at the same time and why hubby got fired from the perfect job and why those sweet kids were born to these rotten parents and why those polar opposite sinners got married to each other in the first place.

Until then, I (anxiously and foot-stampingly) wait.

Faith, hope, and love abide…but the greatest of these is–love.