For the record, I have never wanted a Whitman’s sampler or something from Jared. But I have wanted something different out of Valentine’s Day for most of my life.
In high school you could buy single flowers for people (mums at homecoming, roses at Valentine’s). It was both fundraiser and humiliation device. By lunchtime, the popular kids were piling stacks of long-stemmed roses on top of their books as they struggled to make it to class under all that love. Throughout the long morning, flowers were delivered to individuals in their classrooms. So it wasn’t enough to watch someone’s tally grow as a pile they carried around all day – you had to have class interrupted multiple times, all eyes on the delivery personnel, as the well-loved were brought yet another rose.
I got flowers from my best friends and my brother. I was thankful they loved me, sure, but more so that I could carry around at least 2 or 3 flowers rather than none. I really wanted one of my unrequited loves to come to his senses, though none ever did.
Throughout my childhood and most of my adulthood my mom has given me a Valentine’s card. For a long time I felt like I did about the flowers in high school: thankful not to be entirely left out but a little embarrassed that they weren’t “real” Valentines.
By the time I was in seminary I openly fantasized about throwing a Hester Prynne party on February 14th. I wanted to make gingerbread cookies and decorate them with scarlet icing on each little chest.
When Woody and I met and he discovered I had never had a boyfriend when Valentine’s Day rolled around, he made sure not to overlook my first time. It was sweet, attentive, silly, and full of chocolate, rose petals, and love notes. It was lovely.
But, as my friend Jan has said about life with her husband, at that point it was redundant. That Valentine’s Day with Woody wasn’t any better than every day I spend with him. He makes it a point to show and tell me he loves me all year long. (I only hope I’m half as good at showing and telling him.)
I still think a Hester Prynne party would be fantastic. But over 39 years of unsatisfying Valentine’s Days, I dreaded the day because I wanted proof I was lovable, demonstrated in some publicly understood manner, so there were no more questions on the matter. It’s painful to admit that because, if you had asked me on any one of those days, I would probably have given you a superlative feminist cultural critique about why it didn’t matter, while inside feeling heartbroken yet again.
What’s even more painful to admit is how blind and stupidly proud I was. I don’t know how lovable I am, but I have been loved well by many people my whole life. The Valentines my mom gave me were also redundant. Among many other examples I could give: Mom came from two hours away to do my laundry every week for the four months I was on crutches with a broken ankle.
As with God’s grace, I have done nothing to deserve or warrant any of these good and loving people. But I am so thankful for them. I spent too many years hoping for something that hadn’t come along yet and not fully recognizing what was right there the whole time. Don’t make my mistake.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
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photo credit: © 2014 Mary Lacy Grecco. Used with permission.