I am yours if you are mine
We were married at 12:01AM Christmas morning after a lively feast. After the ceremony just before dessert, my beautiful husband surprised me with a speech. He stood for the entire thing and spoke the entire thing, and I have never been more proud. It is impossible to explain how difficult those two things are for him right now. How difficult they have been for a while. And it was a long speech! When he was done, he sat back down and kissed below my ear and did not let go of my hand the rest of the night.
We are one. We always have been.
Our wedding song:
To us crazy Catholics, Christmas is the time when we symbolically celebrate the birth of Jesus of Nazareth--Jesus Christ, the Messiah, our Savior, the Son of God. This is nothing new to most of you. The birth of Jesus, much like his death, is about hope. It's about love and charity. It's represented by Nativity scenes, brightly wrapped presents, evergreen trees, obnoxious lights--all with its own symbolism and meaning. It comes with its own traditions, one of mine being why we began our evening--our La Vigilia--with the feast of the seven fishes.
But Christmas is not always a joyous time, no matter how much we'd like it to be. Sometimes it represents the very worst of man--the very core of despair. The calendar does not abide symbolism, and no amount of shiny lights or well-thought gifts can erase years of loneliness, bitterness, neglect, and sorrow. Unless you're Scrooge, of course. And yes, Catholics gain something at Christmas--something as precious as a new life--but to a child or an adult who has lost so much, the birth of Christ can often seem an inadequate substitute.
This is why Christmas has always been difficult for me. No matter how strong my faith three hundred and sixty four and a quarter days of the year, Christmas has always been a struggle. It seemed, for so long, that too much had gone wrong--I'd lost too much, suffered too much, seen too much--to be able to allow one symbolic celebration of some kid's birth to bring me the hope, and the peace, that was promised. I have been a self-professed Christmas hater. I have carried the burden of bad years on my shoulders and dumped them under my dimly-lit plastic trees, losing myself in cooking to avoid thinking about just how miserable this one holiday--Holy day--made me feel.
And then came Mr. Collins. And a stroke or two, a seizure, and a few months in the hospital--but who's counting? I woke up one day, quite literally, with a renewed sense of life and a better understanding of love. Love is not about compromise or change--that is what a relationship is about. Love is not about conditions or rules. Earlier we heard from the Corinthians, and I'd hate to have you sit through it again, but understand these words: "Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres." Always. And I realized, upon waking, that celebrating Christ's birth is not a day to delight in evil. It is not a day to relive the wrongs done to me. It is a day to remember that love never fails.
That is why you are here this morning. You see before you a dying man, and let's not pretend it away. And you see at his side a man in his prime--a man who might fail in his patience and get stuck in his envy--and who boasts a bit too loudly about his faltering husband--but who is never self-seeking and has, blessedly, kept no record of my wrongs. You see a couple who almost didn't make it so many times--a man who fought against it (me, of course), denied it, and refused to accept the open heart being given to him--and another man who, so afraid of another denial spent much of his time running away, hiding his feelings, respecting the distance that I imposed. How many of you sitting here knew that he loved me eight years ago? Yes, I see some smiles. I see the nods. How many of you knew three years ago? Right, perfect. I think I knew, too. But love--and the Corinthians do not tell us this--love is terrifying.
We can talk soul mates, but I will not. In my life, I have known and still love every person who has touched my soul. I have given parts of my soul away--and I do not collect them back. I have felt my very core shaken by words and deeds of people I knew I would always love without condition, regardless of how they would feel for me. I grew so used to having parts of my soul scattered across the lives of others, that I did not recognize it, at first, when all of my empty places began to get filled up. I didn't understand the feeling. I didn't understand how I was changing. I simply knew, in holding Brody's hand, that I felt safe. I felt as if I'd come home from a long and painful journey--that I could finally rest. In his arms, I finally find rest. I find respite.
You are here this morning, celebrating with us, because love never fails. I am here this morning, celebrating with you, because love never fails. And Christmas--Christmas is not so miserable, anymore. Christmas is not so sad. I understand what I have gained--in a Savior, in a partner--and while I may stand bent, it is no longer under the burden of my experiences. Instead, I am able, today, to stand this straight because of the love that I have known. And it will not fail. It has not failed. Love never fails.
I thank you for spending these hours away from your family and loved ones--for coming to finally welcome a weary traveler home--for seeing me to my final resting place. And this is not morbid fascination or a preoccupation with death, please understand that. I simply mean to say that here, right now, in love, I have found the one place that I will never leave. For better or worse. In sickness and in health.
Because love never fails.
We are one. We always have been.
Our wedding song:
Click to viewTo us crazy Catholics, Christmas is the time when we symbolically celebrate the birth of Jesus of Nazareth--Jesus Christ, the Messiah, our Savior, the Son of God. This is nothing new to most of you. The birth of Jesus, much like his death, is about hope. It's about love and charity. It's represented by Nativity scenes, brightly wrapped presents, evergreen trees, obnoxious lights--all with its own symbolism and meaning. It comes with its own traditions, one of mine being why we began our evening--our La Vigilia--with the feast of the seven fishes.
But Christmas is not always a joyous time, no matter how much we'd like it to be. Sometimes it represents the very worst of man--the very core of despair. The calendar does not abide symbolism, and no amount of shiny lights or well-thought gifts can erase years of loneliness, bitterness, neglect, and sorrow. Unless you're Scrooge, of course. And yes, Catholics gain something at Christmas--something as precious as a new life--but to a child or an adult who has lost so much, the birth of Christ can often seem an inadequate substitute.
This is why Christmas has always been difficult for me. No matter how strong my faith three hundred and sixty four and a quarter days of the year, Christmas has always been a struggle. It seemed, for so long, that too much had gone wrong--I'd lost too much, suffered too much, seen too much--to be able to allow one symbolic celebration of some kid's birth to bring me the hope, and the peace, that was promised. I have been a self-professed Christmas hater. I have carried the burden of bad years on my shoulders and dumped them under my dimly-lit plastic trees, losing myself in cooking to avoid thinking about just how miserable this one holiday--Holy day--made me feel.
And then came Mr. Collins. And a stroke or two, a seizure, and a few months in the hospital--but who's counting? I woke up one day, quite literally, with a renewed sense of life and a better understanding of love. Love is not about compromise or change--that is what a relationship is about. Love is not about conditions or rules. Earlier we heard from the Corinthians, and I'd hate to have you sit through it again, but understand these words: "Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres." Always. And I realized, upon waking, that celebrating Christ's birth is not a day to delight in evil. It is not a day to relive the wrongs done to me. It is a day to remember that love never fails.
That is why you are here this morning. You see before you a dying man, and let's not pretend it away. And you see at his side a man in his prime--a man who might fail in his patience and get stuck in his envy--and who boasts a bit too loudly about his faltering husband--but who is never self-seeking and has, blessedly, kept no record of my wrongs. You see a couple who almost didn't make it so many times--a man who fought against it (me, of course), denied it, and refused to accept the open heart being given to him--and another man who, so afraid of another denial spent much of his time running away, hiding his feelings, respecting the distance that I imposed. How many of you sitting here knew that he loved me eight years ago? Yes, I see some smiles. I see the nods. How many of you knew three years ago? Right, perfect. I think I knew, too. But love--and the Corinthians do not tell us this--love is terrifying.
We can talk soul mates, but I will not. In my life, I have known and still love every person who has touched my soul. I have given parts of my soul away--and I do not collect them back. I have felt my very core shaken by words and deeds of people I knew I would always love without condition, regardless of how they would feel for me. I grew so used to having parts of my soul scattered across the lives of others, that I did not recognize it, at first, when all of my empty places began to get filled up. I didn't understand the feeling. I didn't understand how I was changing. I simply knew, in holding Brody's hand, that I felt safe. I felt as if I'd come home from a long and painful journey--that I could finally rest. In his arms, I finally find rest. I find respite.
You are here this morning, celebrating with us, because love never fails. I am here this morning, celebrating with you, because love never fails. And Christmas--Christmas is not so miserable, anymore. Christmas is not so sad. I understand what I have gained--in a Savior, in a partner--and while I may stand bent, it is no longer under the burden of my experiences. Instead, I am able, today, to stand this straight because of the love that I have known. And it will not fail. It has not failed. Love never fails.
I thank you for spending these hours away from your family and loved ones--for coming to finally welcome a weary traveler home--for seeing me to my final resting place. And this is not morbid fascination or a preoccupation with death, please understand that. I simply mean to say that here, right now, in love, I have found the one place that I will never leave. For better or worse. In sickness and in health.
Because love never fails.