A Love Like This
Maybe it’s the way that Christmas is faint in the air. You have to search for it before you can smell the gingerbread cookies and the warmth of chocolate chip cookies travel across the room. The subtle Christmas tree, if you call it that, displays little of how glorious the holidays are.
I scan the room and take a seat. I occupy the little space in the corner, the room surrounded with everyone I know, but everyone knew little of me. Groups of friends encircle around each other, and I take my plate at the edge, comfortable being an uncomfortable wallflower.
Come the food and the fellowship. How the tables and the groups merge into one, and how the cliques combine into a group of people united by their similarities: finding joy in the true meaning of Christmas.
We exchange pleasantries, what was it like in the Philippines, how long have you been married, etcetera and etceteras as guards let loose and shoulders roll down.
Then the interactions of the couples and the families, with me whispering a prayer, “Lord, if I do have a family, may it be like this.”
How the husband and wife share old jokes, with the man laughing at his own remark and the lady rolling her eyes, a hint of admiration crept along her smile.
How another man caresses his wife’s stomach, an expecting surprise waiting for them at the end of summer, and how they both share a secret smile: grateful for what has happened, and hopeful for what’s to come.
An elderly couple in the corner of the room, a hymn book in one hand, and each other’s on the other. Comfortable from the holiday noise, and at ease with each other’s presence.
I want a love like that, I whisper to God, silently.
How it’s filled with love and the comfort of being with each other, with inside jokes and peaceful banters, with glances filled with admiration and looks that can only be said that are looks of love.
When I ask them what was the secret, all of their answers (as different as they were) showed me the same thing, “We all looked to Christ before we saw each other.”
