“If I speak to you in tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions and if I hand over my body so that I may boast but not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient: live is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things; endures all things.
Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophecy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end.
When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest is love.”—1 Corinthians, 1-13
I returned to this passage yesterday. Taken in piece, it is one of the most well known for marriage and the ideal of love as romantic vow; but, yesterday, I returned to the completeness of its message.
It is not a passage on marriage. It is a passage on the act of living love. In its original, the word in place of love was “charity,” and as happens to many useful words given to time and exploited association, in our modern time, charity too often has come to mean the antithesis of its origination. Where once charity was a giving of love—from compassion and recognition of the value of another’s soul and spirit—when called for now of expectation and obligation, and asked for upon mass scale rather than the human-to-human engagement and relation, it has lost the power, and essence, it once held. Divorced from love, charity’s power falls away; but love’s remains.
I went to this passage because I was at a loss for my own words, and when such often is the case, I turn to the written words and wisdom of others better knowing than I.
My son, in expectation of a reward without performing the responsibility for which he was asked to complete, became mean. I don’t know all the words and ways, and that isn’t the focus.
The focus is, how do we make a lesson from a moment that is hurtful to those involved?
I learned of it while planting in a field. I was not home. I was not there.
How do we make a lesson from a moment that is hurtful? I reflected as I returned to planting, back and forth in pass until sun fell and I would go home to say good night to our kids.
Thinking, I looked up the passage on my phone, trying to remember where it came from (I remember words, stories, and lessons from. I do not know numeric scripture citations, and that’s probably for the best. It forces me to go back and find them, read them again with new eyes and different life-state perspective).
How do we make a lesson from a moment that is hurtful, to one who—from event—has drawn themselves in guard and defense with preparations from which to attack?
All I could think was love.
Coming home, I grabbed a Bible, put a bookmark at the passage, and went downstairs.
With him in bed, I asked if we could read something together. I handed him the Bible, opened to the page, and asked, “Can you read thirteen?”
He did.
Reading, his eyes welled.
After, I tried to speak to what happened, and he did not want to speak.
He began in defense, attacking to my asking to read together. “When you ask me to do something, even if I want to do it before, I don’t want to do it after you ask.” He tried to use the passage in strengthening of his rhetoric. “That’s how a child sees. You should know that. That’s what the book said isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answer. “But that’s not the point. The point is that, he grows up. He puts away his childish things.” I pause, letting the message settle without driving fast as if in attack. “You are growing up,” I add as I leave the prior message time.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because that’s how we learn. It’s a part of life. It’s how we grow. We aren’t born complete. We have to learn and grow into ourselves and purpose and learn how to treat and love others.”
“I don’t like it,” he tells me.
“That’s okay,” I answer. “You don’t have to like it. Growing up isn’t always fun, but it’s necessary. We’re not meant to stay one way. We’re meant to grow into who we’re meant to be.”
I tell him that I love him and hug him as he lays, then tell, “Stand up, I want to give you a real hug.”
He does, and I do.
Holding him, I tell him, “I will always love you. Even when you’re mad, even when you do wrong, or are embarrassed, or are hurtful; I will love you.”
Still holding, I tell, “I get mad. I’ve hurt people with things I’ve said and things I’ve done.” I keep hold. “Mom and I love you. We’ll always love you, no matter what you do. When we’re trying to help, please, work with us. We’ll always love you.”
After, I help him back to bed, and say goodnight.
How do we make a lesson from a moment that is hurtful?
Love.
It’s the only answer in the end.