The Eros Error

"Wow. This is the first Valentine's day, in a few years, that I have not spent disgruntledly biting the heads off of chocolate bunnies and crying."

I shared this weighty thought with a friend last afternoon while passing out carnations at the Morning Pointe retirement center. She laughed at the satire--I laughed that she thought it was satire--and happily went about the business of socializing with my "buddies."

I had a day full of love yesterday--and nearly forgot, entirely, about the eros variety of such a sentiment.

I woke up with a phone call to my Daddy. I call him at frightfully early hours every Saturday to inquire about the location of bible texts for use in my Sabbath School class. I could use Google; but that would require more contact with my computer (and with my feet on the floor outside of my bed!) than with my father--and he doubles as a right proper concordance, anyway.

I wasn't on the phone for two minutes before my mother could be heard from the background, yelling, "Happy Valentine's Day, Angela!"

Then came church at Connect--with my new Sabbath School class about finding identity in Christ. We talked about fish and Peter and "do you love Me more than these?" God's proposed this question, I've answered yes, and I've had a sticky-glue peace inside of my soul all semester. Church, then, is a wild celebration of this peace--the song-service was so moving I wept.

"Your love is extravagant, your friendship is intimate."

Upon coming home from church, I looked on my laptop to see that a valentine had been delivered. Not just any Valentine, mind you, this was a Happy Feet valentine--with one of Robin Williams' macaroni penguin cronies pontificating that I must "let it out!" this February 14th. X's and O's were scrawled all over the card, in meticulous yet shaky penmanship, and it was signed "Andrew Hicks." I should have known. Andrew and I had a lunch date earlier this week in the cafeteria. I think he might like me. In fact, I know he likes me. I purchased his ice cream. Andrew is four years old. :)

(I think I should also mention that this valentine doubled as a tattoo, thus setting the standard very high for any future valentine applicants.)

Then came Morning Pointe and The Great Carnation Debut. I have a secret: I hate carnations. I think they are the ugliest and least aesthetically pleasing flower on the planet, bearing a striking resemblance to withered cabbages on stems. However, most people seem to harbor no such ill will against these flowers, and I had been racking my brain for a good long time as to what I could do to say "I love you!" to retirement home residents. Make cards? For 60 people? Time consuming. Bake cookies? I'll be honest--I can't bake worth a flip. Nothin', nothin', nothin'--and then God gave it to me: Buy a bunch of carnations and say "I love you." So we did. Me and whoever felt like joining--"whoever" ended up being quite the crowd. The copoius hugs, kisses, and good conversation we received from the residents made my heart run over. Plus, I picked up Valentine #2--Mr. Burns. Not from The Simpson's, friends, from Morning Pointe; and he's just as much of a character. We flirt shamelessly. ;)

I stayed so long at Morning Pointe that I drove back to the dorm at a quicker pace than most Collegedale Police would appreciate--but I had to round off my Valentine's mission. This mission was to "Celebrate single-ness with my Dolphin," who is consequently and sometimes known as Alyssa Foll. Dolphin is Valenine #3.

Our great and mighty plan was to go to the Macaroni Grill (Pengin throwback, anyone?) with two other dear girlfriends--each "couple"matching, with Alyssa and I sporting semi-scandalous red dresses. (I only say this because it is fun to say "semi-scandalous" in regard to one's self. They weren't scandalous at all, really.) So we went out. We ate. We took in a wildly-blatant chick-flick (Confessions of a Shop-a-holic: a stark allegory about the evils of credit-card debt. And a gorgeous British man. I digress.) We thoroughly enjoyed each other's company.

I stumbled into the dorm room at 11:55. I looked in the mirror to take one last glance at the bright red dress, the curled hair, and the precice makeup. "Someday someone will appreciate all of this," I heard my thought-process say. No! No! Don't go there! What was this? I had experienced a "high" day--a lofty day of Valentine's goodness. How could my thoughts then turn so...girly? I shuddered. "Ah, wretched (wo)man that I am! Who shall deliver me from this body of death?"

Then God butted in on my thought-process. I appreciate it when He does this sort of thing.

"Aren't you happier now than you have been in a long time?" He asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Haven't I filled you up today?"He asked again.
"Yes," I said.

He then reminded me of my three valentines: Andrew. Mr. Burns. Dolphin. Then came the rememberence of my parents on the phone. Of church. Of Jesus Christ. I had all kinds of love.

"Do you believe this?" He asked, a third time. (Congruent with the Peter/fish reference, incidentally)
"Yes!" I said again, for the third time.

"Then get up and dance," He said.

Now, I don't know if God has ever told you to dance, but I said "ok!"

I kicked off my shoes and frolicked around my dorm room--red dress, curled hair, precice makeup, and bare feet. I tried every style I could think of: Ballet, Jazz, Chalston-esque-swing, African tribal, theater company chorus line--anything, completely letting go of myself and every incumbent inhibition. It was glorious.

I ended up exhausted, smiling, and thankful. I ended the day dancing with Jesus.

We have a God who has given us all kinds of love--and I'll be honest. Sometimes the eros error makes me decapatate chocolate bunnies and expend some of my saline reserve. But I am happier now than I have been since my reconversion. I have re-discovered my first love "with a vengence," I say. With passion, with spark, with fire, with dance, and with three Valentines to boot.

I have a life filled with Storge, Philia and Agape love--and I am content to be in love with the love which Christ has given to me.

So until those good-looking British men make the scene with penguin tattoos, Eros, I say, can wait. I'll be dancing around my room with God.