be as loud

This post is dedicated to my grandparents, who were married 79 years ago today. Although they have both passed on, their legacy of love, commitment, and responsibility continues to light my path, so this reflection is offered in their memory and honor.

Lately, I've been thinking about love.

(Not necessarily the romantic kind that fills greeting cards and shows up during wedding speeches.)

The everyday kind.

That holds families together, sustains friendships, and strengthens communities.

The kind that teaches us how to live alongside each other with grace, patience, humility, and care.

The kind of love that requires something of us.

As I've gotten older, I've become increasingly convinced that what we do (and what we fail to do) matters more than we often realize.

Words, assumptions, and even silence matter.

The ways we show up for one another (or don’t) matter too.

Maybe that's why I keep returning to the love chapter in Corinthians.

Not because any of us have mastered it.

Certainly not me; however, I do keep trying because it remains as a kind of north star.

A reminder of who I am becoming or at least trying to become.

Patient.

Kind.

Not self-seeking.

Not easily angered.

Rejoicing in truth.

Bearing, believing, hoping, and enduring all things.

It's a beautiful vision.

And if I'm honest, it’s a convicting one too.

It’s important that we ask ourselves:

• Who am I becoming?

• What nourishes and brings me to life?

• How do I flourish?

At first glance, these three questions seem unrelated to love; however, the longer I sit with them, the more I see just how connected to love they truly are.

Because flourishing is not merely about discovering our gifts.

It’s also about developing our character.

And becoming more fully ourselves is not simply a matter of self-expression.

It is a matter of self-formation, which is meant to be an ongoing and life-long process, actually.

And the roots that nourish a truly beautiful life are the very same ones that sustain healthy relationships, nurture strong communities, and build enduring love.

Which brings this question (and the crux of this reflection) to the surface:

• How and when did we get so comfortable causing harm and then moving on as if nothing happened?

Sometimes through carelessness or assumptions.

Through words spoken too quickly.

Or through silence when we should have spoken.

It may be our willingness to accept a story before we've taken the time to verify whether it's actually true.

I've watched situations unfold where the people involved simply moved on with their lives.

Because the conversation ended.

So attention shifted elsewhere.

But not for the person left carrying the consequences. They did not get to move on so easily.

And that image has stayed with me.

Because harm doesn't disappear simply because our attention does.

The person who caused it may forget.

The crowd may find a new story.

And even the conversation may move on.

But the person left sorting through the consequences often carries pain for much longer.

Reputations can be damaged in minutes and take years to repair.

One careless word can echo so far beyond the moment it was spoken.

And a false assumption can alter the trajectory of someone's life.

In the middle of all these thoughts, another question surfaced:

• Have I ever done that?

It's easy to think about the people who have hurt us.

It's harder to consider the possibility that we have been the source of someone else's pain.

• Have I ever repeated something I didn't verify?

• Accepted a narrative because it felt believable?

• Remained silent when I should have spoken?

• Watched something wrong unfold and convinced myself it wasn't my responsibility?

• Been more interested in being right than making things right?

Those questions require a different kind of honesty.

And perhaps that's why we avoid them.

Because truth and accountability cost something.

What does love require of us when we are wrong?

Not what does my pride require.

Not what does my reputation require.

Not what’s the most convenient.

But what does love require?

Today would have been my grandparents' seventy-ninth wedding anniversary.

Seventy-nine years.

When I stop and really think about that number, I'm struck by what it represents.

Not perfection.

Not agreement.

Not a life free from mistakes.

Seventy-nine years happens through thousands of ordinary decisions, opportunities to extend grace and tell the truth.

Thousands of opportunities to apologize, forgive, repair, and begin again.

Love is not built on never getting it wrong.

It’s built on what we choose to do when we get it wrong.

And that may be the real work of becoming.

For Reflection:

• Have I ever participated in harm through action, silence, or assumption?

• Is there a correction, apology, or act of repair I have been avoiding?

• What would it look like to be as committed to restoration as I am to being right?

Put simply, ask yourself:

What does love require of me here?

And note: Love may require a boundary, an apology or anything in-between.

Whatever the outcome needs to be, I pray you have the courage to do it.

Because love is not merely measured by what we feel.

It is revealed by what we are willing to do.

And if the shoe fits:

Be as loud with your apology as you were with your disrespect.

If not louder.