Showing posts tagged with “Love”

articles read & loved no. 53



I was very, very lucky. You know when you’ve met the right person because there’s nothing really to say. I’ve noticed that time and time again, every time one of my girlfriends goes “I’ve met this guy,” and it just goes on forever in the G+ circles I’m in, and there will be pages and pages filled with like five or six of us debating what he said and what he did, and you’re going “Well he did this, and he did that, what does it mean?” And then suddenly that person will disappear, and they’ve met someone else and they’ll just resurface five weeks later and you go “What’s going on?” and they’re like “I just found a man.” And they just stop talking about it. That is generally the key, the point where you stop talking about it, because there is nothing to say when you’re happy. So yes, that’s basically one of the big rules that I’ve found out in life. If you’re talking about him, it’s probably not your future husband.

The Hairpin: An Interview with Caitlin Moran

I mean, it’s me, I can’t entirely shut up but in comparison to the past when I used to tell every single person every intimate detail and complain and analyze incessantly? And especially when people ask me about him? There’s not much to say except that he just is, that it just is. I get this these days.

(via nudewave)

She learned to love him before he thought it was even possible, so he didn’t have a chance to hide & mess it up & while it was a little scary at times, mainly he could not even imagine the world without her there.

—StoryPeople by Brian Andreas

Any preacher who seeks to restrict God’s boundless love to a particular nation, creed, race, gender, sexual orientation or political party is selling you Mom’s apple pie without the apples.

—Rev. Oliver “Buzz” Thomas

What I’m trying to say is one day I woke up and I was home. I had no idea how I got there or if I found you or you found me and you know, I didn’t really need to know. For once, I don’t need to know at all, I’m just glad I’m where I am.


I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved. 

- Louise Gluck


selected unpublished blog posts of a mexican panda express employee by Megan Boyle

Mine comes in the mail this week, and I’m more excited than usual.


selected unpublished blog posts of a mexican panda express employee by Megan Boyle

Mine comes in the mail this week, and I’m more excited than usual.

The Magnetic Fields - It’s Only Time

This is a good wedding song. Too obvious? Don’t care.

It’s at this point in the conversation that I begin to wonder if she’s a universalist. Later, I follow up in an e-mail message: “Do you think that people from other faiths who don’t believe in Jesus are God’s children and will go to heaven?”
“Yes,” she writes back. “I think Jesus is divine love manifest on earth, as it comes through the community of Christians.” He’s like the “beautiful Jewish uncle” who says, “Well, I can show you the way.”
“Only Jesus has come to me, and I experience God’s love in an immediate and personal way through his companionship,” she says. Those in other countries and cultures “feel Divine Love come to them through more local teachings, through other expressions of that love.”
The idea of everyone enjoying God for eternity appeals to me—as I’m sure it does to God—yet it’s hard to reconcile with verses such as John 3:16 and Jesus’ assertion that “no one comes to the Father except through me.” On the other hand, Lamott’s tenderness toward people resembles that of the Shepherd who went looking after one stray sheep.
“Some people have been too starving, attacked, hated, or full of hate to experience God’s love,” she says. “Sometimes I think God loves the ones who most desperately ache and are most desperately lost—his or her wildest, most messed-up children—the way you’d ache and love a screwed-up rebel daughter in juvenile hall. A 5-year-old girl or her mother in the mountains of Afghanistan, a junkie in L.A., Mother Teresa, you, me, children in Gaza—God created us all and loves us and brings us home, into what may be the first shalom we have ever had the chance to experience.”
She disarmingly adds, “I don’t even pretend to understand much of anything. I just try to love and serve everyone, and bring everyone water, and lend an ear; that’s what Jesus said to do.”

Jesusy’ Anne Lamott | Christianity Today | A Magazine of Evangelical Conviction

In which Anne Lamott totally schools the interviewer with her blissful wonder, but the interviewer doesn’t notice because it’s not the right kind of Christian.

(via sailorbaby)

So much love for this woman.

I think that’s our divinity. We lean into love, even in the most hideous circumstances. We manage to hope.

—Mary Karr


Lovers find secret places
inside this violent world
where they make transactions
with beauty.
Reason says, Nonsense.
I have walked and measured the walls here.
There are no places like that.

Love says, There are.

—Rumi (via ciudadesdeluz)

(Source: fuckyeahrumi)

He was walking east. She was walking west. The ribbon of sidewalk was only so wide.

They’d seen each other a few times before, at the cafe where she worked, the new place downtown where he’d park with his newspapers to drink coffee and maybe make a friend.

He’d been feeling old and unconnected, living the lonely existence of a workaholic newspaper man. To compensate, in recent weeks, he’d been shopping for a BMX bicycle. He wore baggy pants and was growing quite a collection of colorful, unworn, outlet-mall sneakers in the closet of his tiny apartment up the street. When the cafe opened, he saw an opportunity to reconnect with humans that don’t live on the pages of his books and magazines.

She knew none of this. Not even his name. She knew only that he needed a new haircut and was probably into computers and took his caffeine without cream or sugar. She and her girlfriends had taken to calling him Black Coffee.

But there was something about him she found appealing. So on that chance late-night sidewalk passage, as their shoulders missed by inches, she drew in a quick breath and growled and the noise that escaped her lips hung in the hubbub of a Central Avenue Saturday night.

Opportunity presents itself in many ways, in high school halls and bathroom stalls, at festivals, in vestibules. It finds the aimless and beer-buzzed lovesick in the Florida night and spins him right ’round, makes him follow a stranger with a tattoo sleeve, makes him order extra courage in a jug the size of his face and sway in her direction.

East meets west. Boys meet girls. Some stories start and never end.

What happened next? Heat lightning.

He asked her to a wedding. In North Carolina. What color should I wear? she said. He thought maybe she was joking. “Guest: Lauren E. Bernard,” she texted. “What does the E stand for?” he asked. “Electric,” she said.

He suggested maybe a date first. Saturday, she said. She read his story. He wore a sweater vest and new Nikes and drove her home without questions. He smelled of Old Spice body wash and she of smoke and vanilla. They fell against the furniture. His sweater vest was lost.

He followed her to the cafe the next day and drank a barrel of coffee just to see her fill his cup.

When can we hang out again? he asked.

Tuesday, she said.

He told her he couldn’t wait until Tuesday, and so they didn’t, and then there was no longer a need for silly questions.

I think I’m falling in love with you, he said on Thursday, as they sat beside her swimming pool and talked of how strange the week had been.

She felt like he balanced her, tamed her, and he was genuine.

“Why do you love me?” she asked once.

“I care for you more than I care for me,” he said.

Love? Love looks like a college reunion in North Carolina, our rational man alone, earnestly telling old friends that he’s in a serious relationship with a woman he just met. Love looks like our logical man, who folds his dress socks down and reads with a red pen, trying to explain that he can’t explain why he feels the way he feels. Love looks like a $50 change fee for a Delta flight that puts him home two hours earlier, because two hours is too long to be without her. Love looks like a man who has lived in Florida for five years feeling like he’s flying home – home – for the very first time.

“Be with me forever,” he said some months later.

“Of course,” she said.

And here they stand, in love in the sawgrass, sidewalk beneath their feet, footfalls from another chapter.

"What Ben Wrote For My Wedding"

(Ben Montgomery is the journalist I had the privilege to interview for my independent study. He is brilliant.)


Rene Magritte: Time Transfixed, (1938).


Rene Magritte: Time Transfixed, (1938).

This is still one of my favorite things I've ever read.

(And I get to see Franzen speak in Pittsburgh this fall!)