New Reflections On Loving Well

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.” —Oliver Wendell Holmes

Ah, February, the love month, which Hallmark has dubbed “Loveuary.” It’s also the one-year anniversary of Be That as It May: Adventures in Loving Well. Many thanks to all who have offered such helpful support and feedback on the topics I wrote about in 2023. While I did not post as often as I hoped to last year, I look forward to doing so more often in the months ahead.

“Loveuary” is a good time for an annual review of the concept of Loving Well. It’s simple in some ways—baking a pie to welcome new neighbors; bringing a child’s lunch to school—or not bringing it—depending on how many times it’s been forgotten. It may be adding something new to a bag of hand-me-downs, or volunteering at a local soup kitchen. For some, saving the rain forest is loving well. For others, it’s saving themselves for marriage. Loving well may be learning to say “no,” “I don’t know,” or “I’m sorry.” Or committing to a higher level of hospitality, punctuality, or confidentiality.

Less simply, loving well might be donating the organs of a deceased loved one. It could be forgiving an unfaithful partner—or forgiving yourself for not yet being able to do so. Putting down a beloved but suffering pet is loving well. Few of us will ever save someone’s life or win a Nobel Peace Prize. However, within the ordinary context of our daily lives there are many opportunities to offer ourselves and others clear messages of appreciation and respect.

Loving well often costs us little or nothing—a supportive smile and encouraging word, for example, offered to an exhausted young parent whose tired toddler is in meltdown mode. Or the rush to help, as my husband once did, an elderly woman who tripped on an absurdly steep curb on her way into a roadside restaurant.

More emotionally costly is a eulogy that a woman delivered recently at the funeral of her ex-husband. Though his addiction problems had torn their family apart, she reminded those who gathered that in a single year he had lost his mother, his father, and a brother. Even so, she believed that despite the risks of a family history of substance abuse, he chose drugs and alcohol to deal with his grief. Those choices changed him and took him far away from all who loved him as he struggled to cope with such terrible pain. She did not minimize the suffering and chaos involved in being his former wife and the mother of his children. Many who heard her speak were deeply moved by her candid but compassionate commitment to loving well.

The most challenging part of my personal journey toward loving well, however, is the ambivalence of knowing that, in some respects, I’m writing from what author and theologian Richard Foster calls, “the edge of unlived truth.” Committed as I seek to be, there are times when I do not do a good job of loving well.  

One of the earliest of these experiences came in 1980. I was 21 years old and living with my husband about 30 miles west of Chicago. Shortly after moving in, I got a job at a local bank where I met “Diane.”

Diane and I worked well together and soon began enjoying time away from work too. She used words such as “veranda” and “davenport,” which always made me smile. Her yellow ranch with white trim was clean and comfortable, tastefully decorated but not fancy. Her backyard garden teemed with tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, radishes, and rhubarb. I spent many evenings and weekends in Diane’s home, baking cookies and learning to sew. I grew quite fond of her three freckle-faced, school-age children.

When I told Diane I was pregnant with our first child, she threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. As the months went on, we chatted endlessly about labor and delivery, babies and feeding, diapers, pediatricians, and more. Thanks to Diane’s caring counsel, my confidence as a mother-to-be grew right along with my ever-expanding belly.

Then one day, Diane didn’t show up for work. She didn’t come the next day, or the day after that. Shortly before I went into labor, Diane called to tell me her husband had left her.

I still remember the faded red vinyl seats and chipped brown Formica tables at the diner where we met the next day for lunch. I knew Diane had not eaten or slept for days. Even so, I was unprepared for the drastic change in the appearance of the woman who came to meet me. Diane’s chalky white face was tightly drawn. She had clearly lost weight and somehow seemed to have shrunk in height as well. Her agonized expression of sadness and hurt contrasted violently with the woman I knew. Her hands shook as she raised a cup of coffee to her lips and confessed that anxiety about the future and anger at her husband had paralyzed her. She looked to me for reassurance and support.

I did my best to encourage Diane with much empathy, deep concern, and a listening ear. Yet it felt like a short-term boost at best. I wanted to fix what was wrong, make her pain go away, which I could not do. At the same time, part of me resisted allowing her anguish to intrude upon my naïve notions about what marriage and motherhood could entail. This inner conflict confused and distracted me for weeks as Diane continued to flounder like the frightened, infuriated women she was. 

Soon enough, an unexpected cesarean, a colicky infant, postpartum depression, and the financial challenges of living on one income absorbed every ounce of my time and attention. I lost touch with Diane and have no idea how she and her family navigated the upheaval they experienced during that time. I take comfort in the fact that she was strong and smart, which leads me to hope she survived the shock and grief and found a way forward. I have tried to find Diane to apologize for possibly making a painful period of her life even harder by being so overwhelmed and unavailable. Unfortunately, I have never been able to find her despite the technology that makes that easier to do now than ever before.

Though it’s been more than 40 years, questions linger and closure remains elusive. Did Diane reunite with her husband and live happily ever after? Or remarry and change her name, which might make her harder to find? Perhaps she is perfectly content, partnered or single, and living her best life? Could she possibly have passed away by now? If so, I hope she might greet me in heaven someday with the same elated embrace she offered when I told her I was pregnant.

What I learned from Diane is that it’s not always easy to know, let alone give, what loving well might demand. Also, that circumstances, for better or worse, can play a role. Perhaps most importantly, I learned that not loving well can come at a cost, just as loving well can. In this instance, the cost has been heartfelt regret about the abrupt end of a promising friendship that could well have lasted many years.

Be that as it may, I agree with Thoreau that “nothing can be more useful to a man than a determination not to be hurried.” What I know for sure about loving well is that there are no shortcuts or express lanes on the road that leads to the joy and satisfaction it can add to our lives.

The road, however, is a winding one that includes potholes, sharp turns, detours—and possibly a crash or two—along the way. It’s relational holy ground, where humility, self-reflection, and patience help me stay focused on loving well when the road gets rough. “Loveuary” will always be a good time to remember that. So onward through the year I go, loving well as best I can.

Questions:

1.     Do you agree that loving well can take time to learn? Why or why not?

2.     Have you paid a price of some kind for loving or not loving well?

3.     If you were to make loving well a goal for this year, where would you begin?