The Price of Love

You hear about all the benefits of love all the time.

You hear about the dreamy feelings of being with someone.  You hear about the laughter.  You hear about joy.  You hear about spending precious moments with someone else. 

And this isn't just romantic love either.  It's the love of family and friends.  The love that binds relationships together. 

We like this stuff.

But we don't often talk about the price of love.  And no, I am not talking about when a relationship goes sour.  That's a whole other topic.

I am talking about the price of love that is paid while the relationship is ongoing and even thriving.

I wrote not long ago about being in sort of a dry spell.  I've been wrestling a lot with what is going on within me, and today something came to the fore-front that I wasn't expecting. 

I drove to East Bernard to visit one of my members who is on hospice.  His wife requested that I bring Holy Communion to them.  It's always a powerful moment to bring the Sacrament to someone who is dying and to that person's family as well.  It's an honor and a privilege to be a part of that moment, and it was again today.

But as I left the house and revved the engine in my Mustang, my brain sent one of those signals.  "That hurt," it said.

And I realized, it did.

It hurt to see this man dying.

It hurt to see his wife standing beside him and holding hands after they took communion together.

It hurt to stand in the kitchen, washing out the used wine cups and hear their silence in the other room.

It hurt to have the gentleman grasp my hand and refuse to let go as I was planning to exit.

It hurt because I care.

It hurt because I love them.

In seminary, we held numerous conversations about keeping a professional distance from members of your congregation.  My mentor also cautioned me to avoid making deep friendships with folks in the church.

I asked why.

He replied, "Do you want to bury one of your good friends?"

I'm really not sure I could handle that one.

So I've worked on maintaining those professional boundaries.  I've worked on keeping up an emotional barrier which allows me to function and be there through tremendous upheaval in peoples' lives.

But I've begun to notice it doesn't stop the pain. 

Because as much as you want to keep that professional barrier up, you still come to know, respect, and love the people you work with.  You see their joys and their sorrows, and it affects you whether you like it or not. 

Could I change that?

I think so.  I think I could block everything out, but I believe then I will become totally callous; uncaring; unfeeling.  That's not me.  Love breaks down the barriers--not the professional distance, but the barriers which allow complete detachment.

In seven years of working with and serving people, I have become attached.  I love my congregation.  I love my people.  Being with them and working with them brings me true joy.  Not quite as overwhelming as the joy I receive from my wife and children, but there's still plenty of it.

But, I think I am also starting to feel the pain.  As the congregation has grown, the amount of pain has increased.  Two members on hospice.  A child seeing a specialist for a problem which could be serious.  Members caring for parents and being overwhelmed emotionally.  Members dealing with cancer and its treatment.  Spouses of those members dealing with watching their loved ones deal with the disease.  A community member who is well connected to many of my members has a stroke and now must undergo six months of rehabilitation.  And this is just the tip of the ice berg.  There are so many other things going on with so many other people.

And they all come to me for prayer...

for a word from God...

for some type of comfort in the midst of what they are going through.

And I pray.

And I speak.

And I hug.

And I hurt.

Because I love.