What if love is love? What if the colloquial bastardizations are its essence after all? What if I love you the way that I love ice cream and autumn rain, and this is the love that holds the universe together?
What if the new commandment is every bit as absurd as it sounds? Maybe we were never meant to redefine love as a thing that could be forced. Maybe we're supposed to learn the impossible: love the feel of new socks, love the breeze in your hair, love In-N-Out burgers, and love one another.
What if love runs deeper than the doings that inevitably mark it? What if you can give away all that you possess, submit your body to the flames, and discover in the end that it was nothing? What if love is not the sacrifice, but the elusive delight that flows beneath it?
What if love--the trivial, everyday kind of love with which I love Saturday mornings and good coffee and tiny cars--can't be forced, but can be found? What if the one who seeks will always find it?
What if the pure in heart see God?
