On Love (or, Best Git Yer Mushin' Shoes)

World's full of pretty girls. Once Ellie and I officially began dating, I started training myself into a habit which I still maintain: every time I see an attractive young lady, I say to myself, "No one's as pretty as Ellie." This is partly because it's true. (No offense to my female readers.) But also, it's for the same reason that we say the Apostle's Creed every week even though we already believe it—to keep it ingrained on the very forefront of our minds, to keep it reflexive. The same reason that even (for example) the best soccer players in the world keep practicing basic kicks all the time even though they're already the best: because that is precisely what makes them the best. The Christian apologist Von Hügel once said, "I kiss my son not only because I love him but in order that I may love him." The more I act as though I love Ellen, the more I love her. It's the one and only good thing about the tribulation of hyperemesis gravidarum: it gives me ample opportunity to practice loving my beloved.

Love means to will the good of another. Like all things that are deeply true, it's complicated and painful. I love my daughter, and that's going to mean spanking her if she keeps trying to stick her fingers in the outlet. There are levels of good. At what point does true love mean letting Sonya Madga make a mistake and learn a hurtful (agonizing? crippling?) lesson? As with any big decision, I can't know that without praying to the Holy Spirit and seeking the counsel of people I respect; but I also can't pile my own culpability on Him or them. I'll make decisions, be wrong, and hurt the treasure of my heart sometimes. What's the alternative?

We met the Pope this one time. No big deal or nothin'. You hang around that town for a bit and it really comes home to you that il Papa means "the Pope" but also, you know—the Papa. My dad made mistakes, and I'll make mistakes. The Pope makes mistakes. (Except when he speaks ex cathedra, of course.) He's still our Papa. If he didn't care about us, he could just hang out in the Papal Palace and let us figure things out on our own, just as I could let Sonya play around with the outlets. Maybe I spanked her too hard. Maybe the outlets are some kind of new-fangled LED outlets that can no longer shock you, and I spanked her for no reason at all. Will she still grow up knowing I love her and I'm doing the best I can? Dear God, I hope so.

You, reader. I will your good. Most likely (let's be honest), you're one of my Facebook friends, and we already know and love each other in the world outside the Internet. But who knows! You could be reading this in 3000 A.D. as you crouch in a neon corridor exchanging photon-rifle fire with space heathens who insist that it's 3000 C.E. like the idiot heathens that they are. That's okay, I still will your good. And (um—sorry) theirs too. Stupid people think it's impossible to love your neighbor because we can't always feel nice fuzzy feelings towards everyone. Nooooo shit. That's not what love means. It turns out that God's not an idiot. He doesn't command us to be continuously fuzzy, but to will the good of all. And that quite often means sacrificing ourselves; but not always. After all, if the space heathens were suddenly to perceive the truth of Love, then they would stop shooting at you and you guys could all get together and party. But more likely, they'll torture you to death and then you and I can get together in Purgatory and pray for their souls.

Does that sound bleak? It probably sounds bleak. I'm waiting for my daughter and drinking bourbon, and I'm not inclined to soften things. I surely do wish that Sonya Rose could enter a world without hate. But if she did. . . would she ever grow up? Is it better that she remain a child for eternity? Maybe if I truly love her, I need to let her face the Evil, fight the Evil, fail and fall and get back up. God is Love, and wills our good. And boy, does He let us suffer. Willing my daughter's good, shall no doubt mean watching her pass through some hard, deep waters. But here's what Ellie has written on our wall as we wait for Madga Rosa to finally emerge from the womb:

"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you . . . When you walk through the fires, you will not be burned . . . For you are precious and honored in my sight. . .

And I love you" (Isaiah 43).