It makes no sense.

If I could tell you why I took this job in 8 lines, there you have it. I don't really know why I'm here except I was commanded to be. And because 25 cents an hour is a huge draw. Duh.

I'm one of those in-love-with-love people.

(Chyeah. Not the romantic kind, people. That'll be fun one day though I'm sure.)

I'm fascinated with how God built love.

How he made it to be a reflection of a salvation story.

But then we grabbed it. Then we twisted that redemption mirror into snobby ignorance of the ugly and the homeless and the brokenhearted.

We turned it into The Bachelorette.*

* Not that I won't be watching tonight. Just proving a point.

Huh. How'd that happen?

So I was thinking about it yesterday. What it really means to love. And this wound up on the pages of my journal:

Messiest handwriting ever. Good thing God can probably read it.

It doesn't make sense at all to love. Like, at ALL. If you really think about what it really means. It's kinda the most preposterous, unsafe thing you could ever do with your life. I mean, the you-might-get-burned rate of playing in traffic is probably lower than extending biblical love to someone.

But that's the fun in it.

We trust in the "and it never fails" part.

And we go for it.

Why not?

Slow down. Be still. Let go. We will. Be here. Be now.

If you choose to love / to know that the call / is give all that you are

To give love away.

Rise, rise. People of love rise. And give yourself away.

- Robbie Seay Band. Thank you Pandora, which I listen to on the reg each a.m.