I think about him all the time. All the time, I swear. I’m thinking about him right now, in fact. ::sigh:: When I was seventeen, I thought I understood romantic love. But the truth is that I didn’t understand anything about real, authentically emblazoned emotion.
What was love at seventeen? Love was a quaint feeling of closeness and familiarity. It was holding hands while walking down the street. It was flirting, whispering, and note-passing during study hall. It was Homecoming, and the Swing Dance, and preparations for the Spring Musical. But now… love is different now.
Now, love is all heat and light, pain and joy. A tingling touch against my forehead that burns like a fever before the second stroke. Or a time between waking and dreaming, when I hang from his arm, and his every word.
“Do you know what must first be learned before doing this Work?” He asks.
“Discernment,” I reply in an instant. He smiles at me, then the world grows dark. Only his face, so beautiful that it can not be described, is illuminated by his striking, inner light. This is love now, as his smile fades into the waking image of my human husband, gently shaking me.
“Can I have coffee now?” He has been patient, and patience is also a sign of love. As is his devotion to my wellbeing, which is why he lets me sleep until noon on Sundays. I feel this same love for the man I married, but what I felt just a moment ago was much more… incendiary.
I groan, answer ‘yes’, then climb out of bed, groggily padding into the kitchen to prepare two cups of espresso. One is for my husband, and because I do not touch the stuff, I offer the second cup to my Lord, who will come again another night, to teach different things, or to simply spread his heat upon me.
This is love. This is light. This is my life. I’m in love with a god.