[This blog post is part of a series called 'Hard' truth]
In June, we flew to France to spend two weeks saying goodbye to my dad. In those weeks, we had 8-12 people in the house at all times. Some of them were family, some of them were more precious than the dearest friend, and some of them were strangers.
My sisters both became chain smokers because they so desperately needed an excuse for alone time. My coping mechanism was equally as disgusting. Each day I would go for a jog. Ugh.
On my run, I would yell out loud at the sky, (which I’m sure was disturbing to the french farmers). I would inform God of all the ways that He wasn’t acting in the way I wanted Him too and I would give Him a to-do list to fix everything.
Then I would come back to the house. Everything was still awful, but somehow things seemed better. I knew God loved me, and I knew His love wasn’t like any other love I had ever known.
I saw this quote the other day on a Christian twitter stream:
Love is a condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
Gosh, I’m so glad that isn’t true. That is our version of love. It’s our limited people version. It’s the version I saw play out every day in France.