It must be fall. My antisocial cat has come out of hiding to absorb my body heat. Janie is a tease of a cat. She rolls onto her back in front of me, baring her fluffy white belly, then darts away when I reach to pet her. But when it gets chilly, she curls up next to me, purrs, and lets me pet her. I think she's using me.
Our yellow lab, Daisy, has caused hundreds, probably thousands of dollars of damage to house, clothing, and pool equipment. Our three children have given me smart-aleck comments, sleepless nights, barf on the carpet, and several "I hate you's."
Why do I put up with it? The answer is obvious, isn't it? Love. The cat is so irresistably fuzzy. The dog has big brown eyes and goes into a full-body wag whenever I come home. The kids make my chest ache because I love them so much.
1 Peter 4:8 says, "Love covers over a multitude of sins." So true. Love helps me put up with Janie's standoffishness, Daisy's destructiveness, and my kids being kids.
Why don't I show the same grace to the guy who cuts me off in traffic and makes me miss a light? To the lady at the department store who keeps sending the cashier back to see if they have that blouse in a different size? To the fellow employee who pesters me with stupid questions (yes, there's such a thing as a stupid question)?
I don't show them grace because I don't love them.
Not the warm, fuzzy love reserved for those close to me, but the "love your neighbor as yourself" kind of love. The kind of love that remembers God made that person too and loves them just as much as He loves me. The kind of love that stops to wonder if maybe that person is having a bad day or has troubles I can't see. The kind of love that remembers I'm human too. I cut people off sometimes. I've been known to take too long at the cash register. I ask stupid questions.
That's the kind of love I want to receive the next time I goof up. The kind of love I want to give the next time someone else goofs up.
Love is more than a feeling. It's a choice.