Love is kind. Love is a kind of disposition that I’m trying to hone in on like some emotional craft to be mastered. My cheeks are chapped and raw with the lesson of it all.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It takes everything in and decides that choosing a life-giving response is more important than even an inch of self-preservation or entitlement or recognition or…
It does not dishonor others. It protects the humanity of everyone around it. Not in the way of some brutal attacker standing at gates waiting for someone to poke around. No. Something more like a weathered old man standing in front of rolling tanks. Or Jesus whispering, “peace be still” to a savage storm…
It is not self-seeking. Never ever.
It is not easily angered. Even when someone calls it a faggot. Even when someone condemns it. Even when someone deserves all the wrath in the entire existence of wrathful responses. It knows there is always a reason for hateful dispositions and instead of asking for an eye or a tooth in response, love bends down and washes the feet of those who were never meant to be its enemies in the first place.
It keeps no record of wrongs. It sees the beauty in letting go of things that only bring toxicity to the soul. And so here I am. I’m throwing out my detailed list, my ledger of offenses, all the reasons I have for denying love. Every single reason. God, help me.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. Not the truth we construct to justify bad behavior. Not the truth that gives us the right to create categories of “us” and “them.” Not the truth that inevitably turns malignant. The truth that binds up the brokenhearted and sets captives free, free, free.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (This.)
Love never fails. It just doesn’t.