I recognized something very wonderful earlier this week that, admittedly, I have been hesitant to share. But as I contemplate more often the step I have taken in calling myself a writer the more I realize the importance and—the necessity—of giving away what bits of life I feel I have been given. I think the title, Writer, may in some way be synonymous with the word Giver. Granted, as an amateur, student, youngling, Padawan, or whatever you wish to call the person in the stage of striving, I know my writing is not the best and is often unfinished or naked (as I prefer to say). But it is what I have written. It is what I have to give.
This gift in particular, this wonderful something buried behind hesitancy, is of course about love. It is all I know right now; Love—and all of its shards. Loneliness, despair, anguish, anger, hope.
But I prefer to consider Love unshattered, as it reflects life’s great mysteries, its great beauties—our God.
What I learned recently was this: the best answer I have come up with so far as to why it is so difficult to let go of someone you love.
Naturally, I blame God. I blame him for his inspiring of Psalm 139 and the words that suggest our intricate formation, that God took time to craft each and every one of one of us through the long and arduous metaphor of knitting. It only means that everyone is unique, that we are all handmade, knotted up in some areas, have bits of loose ends, and are woven tight to near perfection in others. I blame God because there is no one in the entire world like me, or you, or the people that we love.
Isn’t this what we miss? The knotty parts, the loose ends, and the short sections of what we see as perfection in someone? The unique intricacies of a person, what makes them—them. Memories play in our minds like a montage and they’re the scenes of all the things we love and have lost, the things that are impossible to shake. I would love to fill in the details from my own experiences of these moments, which, for me, play in my head like a vintage movie projector, but I will spare you. The images are corny, kind of weird, all done in film noir, sometimes strange, and downright adorable. They would probably only delight my mind to think of them, and even now it is best not to think of them at all. But we can all imagine ourselves in our own private movie theatre, the sole observer of the single solitary detail of a person we love, watching them in short clips as they do the things that only they do. Sole observer meeting soul of another. These are the things we never want to let go, that we would give anything to get back.
This truth, if it is true, tells me something wonderful about life and God. God’s hand of creativity with which he writes impresses uniqueness on each of us that stretches far beyond the Psalms. God created people, people we know and love, hold and hug, kiss and cuddle, or—snuff and ignore. He created us all completely different and agonized over the details. Then he sprinkled freedom on top of that to add to the endless rainbow of diversity of who we could be.
Everyone is one of a kind—when someone is the only person who you will ever meet who is THAT way—it is no wonder it is so difficult to fall out of love.