A Love Story

I did something strange the other day. I looked at myself in the mirror. Ok, so that’s not exactly gasp-worthy news. But it wasn’t just a quick check as I was brushing my teeth. For some reason I got the urge to actually look – closely – at my face. It was an alarming experience.

I leaned in, examining the eyes that don’t quite match, the blotchy skin, the wrinkle that I hadn’t noticed before. Wincing at each flaw, I decided to find some things I liked about my features. I did find a few. My nose is okay; it’s just like my dad’s. And I don’t mind the thoughtful space in between my eyebrows.

As I looked, I began to notice something curious about my eyes. Each time I looked at them, they were looking at me. Nothing odd in that – it was a mirror, after all. But though I slid and scooted and zipped my real eyes around my reflection, I could never once catch even the tiniest flicker of movement from those eyes that were staring back into mine. It was unnerving. The direct gaze in the mirror wasn’t looking at my flaws; wasn’t seeking out my pleasing parts. It was just looking at ME.

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Why is it so hard to be looked at? Really, really looked at. A passing glance we can tolerate; the indifferent eyes of a stranger may not cause alarm. But to be in the full focus of a direct, piercing gaze makes us squirm. Is it, perhaps, because we fear we may be truly seen?

Sometimes I’m afraid people will figure me out and know that I’m a fraud. That my insides don’t match my outsides. The person inside is frightened sometimes, and prideful sometimes, and in secret sometimes longs to run away. What if people could see that? What if someone looked – looked closely – and saw all my insecurities and foolishness? Wouldn’t they back up, murmuring an apology, and walk away as quickly as they could? To let someone look inside is to be vulnerable. Because if they look, they may choose to not love what they see.

Thursday is Valentine’s Day. A day to celebrate love. Call me a sentimental sap, but I think love is the greatest force in the world. And being in love is the greatest joy of life.

Being in love is not a blessing bestowed only upon the young and starry-eyed. It is not merely boy-meets-girl romance and happily ever after. Being in love is being IN love. Inside of love. I am in love, in the love of my husband, my children, my adored friend. In-love love is the eyes in the mirror, gazing into the inside of me. It doesn’t look at the imperfections that I can so readily see, nor even at the good I might do in a day. It sees ME. And it chooses to not look away.

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There was a man of some importance. He wished to be a good man. He wished to be respected for the life of value he had led. He found His Savior in the street, spoke to Him, lay before Him his offering of a well-led life. Jesus looked at the man’s pride, his foolishness, his inability to be all that he hoped to be. With the clear, seeing gaze of the Son of God, Jesus took in all that that man was. He looked at HIM.

And Jesus, looking at him, loved him.  Mark 10:21a

I am in the gaze of my Savior. He looks at me and knows me – the inside part of me, that nobody else can fully see. I want Him to see the good parts, to know I’ve tried my best. But I know what else is in there, and that I can’t hide it from Him. I squirm, vulnerable, unable to defend myself, too aware of my inadequacies.

And in those gentle, steady eyes, I see love.

I see the love that hung on a cross, covering over my flaws. I see the love that claims me as its own, taking away my need to be anything other than His. I see the love that sees ME, that looks right at the inside me, and does not walk away.

I am in love. Within love. Eternally, consistently, determinedly surrounded by love.

Jesus looked at him and loved him.

Jesus looks at you – really looks – and loves you.

Happy Valentine’s Day.  You are in love.

First printed in the Alpena News, February 9. 2013