I can still remember the feeling just before Valentine’s Day- slightly excited, somewhat anxious. Would I get a Valentine card this year? Would my secret admirer (or if I was feeling really optimistic, admirers) surreptitiously slip that coveted red envelope adorned with kisses into my locker, or maybe inside my desk?
It was always a proud moment when that happened, especially if my friends were with me. That way, they would see how popular I was; how much I was admired; how pretty I must be.
The trouble was, I don’t actually remember those moments. What I do recall is the feeling of disappointment; the kind of ‘shrug-it-off-who-cares’; ‘I-actually-never-even-wanted-a-card-from-him-anyway’ pretense that I was so good at.
When you are thirteen years old, in a competitive school, surrounded by pretty girls and handsome boys, Valentine’s Day can be a cruel twenty-four hours to get through.
But girls grow up. They mature. They somehow survive those brutal ‘will I get a Valentine card or not’ days. Sometimes, they might become grandmas. They can shake off all that teenage silliness; all that emotion; all that comparing yourself with others business; and if they are really good at it, they can pretend they don’t need to be loved.
Except they do.
And as I wander through the stores, two weeks away from Valentine’s Day, surrounded by row upon row of red hearts, and red envelopes; red boxes of chocolate wrapped with red ribbon; red balloons flying above my head and red roses standing at my feet, I think about the color of love.
And if the cross had a color, what color that might possibly be?
No one has greater love than the one who gives their life for their friends. John 15:13