I Love Valentine's Day!

I always have actually.

I guess I've never understood the disdain and, in some cases, the vehement hate many people have for this holiday. Isn't that kind of an oxymoron -- hating a day about love?

I have fond memories from my childhood that, to this day, I still think about and smile. Valentine's Day stands out as a special holiday for me for several reasons. Although I love just about any major holiday, this day is not only a day set aside just for love (A day for love and that's it? How cool is that!) but with my family it is the one holiday that was not fraught with family friction.

Thanksgiving was an every-other-year event split between my parents.

Christmas was with my mother. New Year's with my father. (Every year.)

Easter was primarily with my mother until I was in high school.

I think you get the picture. Holidays were a back and forth, emotionally charged time for me.

But Valentine's Day? No, that was a chill holiday. Every year my stepfather bought me a bag of conversation hearts, and although my taste changed for them over the years, I still smile every time I see the seasonal shelves lined with them at my local grocery store. That pink bag of sugary confection meant that someone cared. And I didn't have to have an argument to see that.

As I got older and went onto high school, Student Council and FHA had their annual cupcake and carnation sales. I wasn't popular, but I did have all my siblings and my small circle of friends. There was nothing better than getting a cryptically signed card with U R COOL spelled out in red icing across a cupcake. I loved it every time. And there was the year my sister sent me a carnation with a sweet sisterly message attached (and we really weren't so sweet and sisterly!) and I loved that too.

I never dated, only a few brief dates in college, until I met my husband in graduate school. And although the reservation was at ten o'clock at night and I was extremely exhausted by the time we got home, I still love how seriously he took my words. I'd told him I'd never had a date on Valentine's Day, so this would be something new and special to me. And he made it special. And he's made it special ever since.

This year, I wanted to give back to him all the lovely, special moments he planned for me over the years, whether it be the heart-shaped pizza, the carpet picnics, or the roses he's sent. I arranged for a week of love, and I'm loving it! I'm enjoying seeing his surprise with every little thing I give or do.

Sometimes that's the beauty about love -- it feels so good to give it in return!

A Woman's Wound

I've been reading a fascinating book lately. As a present, I received John and Stasi Eldredge's book Captivating: Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman's Soul. If you've ever read any of John Eldredge's books, then you know his works delve deeply into the heart and soul of what shapes men and women.

There are many fascinating aspects to this book, but the one I want to touch on today is from "Chapter Four: Wounded". This section gripped me in a way I hadn't thought much about in the past. Basically, women all have a wound from their pasts. That wound could happen at anytime in our upbringing, and much of the wounding that continues on past that initial wound almost always relates back to it.

Some of the stories Stasi shares are so sad, but there are those I can relate to. For instance, some women's wounds stem from having passive fathers, men who paid more attention to their drinking and carousing with friends than they did their own daughters' dance recitals. Some women's wounds stem from just the fact that they were born a girl or that they were born at all. One woman's father rejected her at birth, simply because she was not born a boy. She prayed all throughout her childhood that God would make her into a boy. Stasi Eldredge relates her own story about being the fourth and final child in a family that didn't want anymore children. She always saw herself as problematic because she was even born at all. Another woman's father divorced his mother over an affair. When she spent any time with her father after that, this is what she had to say:

"I learned to cry underwater. When we'd go to the pool, I didn't want him to see me cry."

And how could I not cry over words like that?

This isn't the first time I've heard of the woman's wound, but it's the first time I've really taken a look at the wound inside myself and how it relates to what my life has been like since. I see my life as a path strewn with failure, even though I've been told many times that's not my path at all. But it's getting me to actually see my skewed view that's important.

I still have to read the chapter on healing the wound, and when I do, I'll get back to you on that one.

Have you ever thought about your wound? Did you even think you had one?