He Loves Me

When I was young, I used to pick flowers and think about my crush, pulling petals one by one: “He loves me. He loves me not.” Back and forth until the last petal decided everything.

That memory came back to me recently while I was sitting quietly, reflecting on my life and what I want, what I believe, and who I’m becoming. It struck me how often I’ve approached love—especially divine love—as if it fluctuates like that childhood game. As if it’s something that can be “on” or “off” depending on circumstances.

When things started falling apart for me, love was the first thing I questioned.

If God is love, then why didn’t He protect my child?
If love is real, why hasn’t my child been healed?
If I’m cared for, why have people I trusted hurt me so deeply?

You can probably fill in your own versions of those questions.

I tend to process things by writing, so I went back and found something I wrote during one of my lowest points: "The Lord loves us so, that He repeatedly injures Himself to love us, and it's worth the cost to Him."  Someone once pushed back on that idea, saying that if God’s love was fully expressed in the past (like in the story of the cross), then it’s not something that continues to “cost” Him now. I understand that perspective. But emotionally, experientially, it still feels true to me that love—real love—always involves some kind of vulnerability, some kind of willingness to stay even when it hurts.

That’s the kind of love I’ve wrestled with.

I’ve wrestled with the idea that maybe I can’t “disappoint” God in the way we disappoint each other—if He already knows everything about me. And yet, at the same time, I still feel the weight of my choices. I still feel the distance when I move away from what I know is right.

But what I keep coming back to is this: the sense that I’m not abandoned in that.

That even in the middle of my doubt, anger, and questions, I’m not discarded.

And that’s hard to explain in a world where love is often conditional.

If God’s love worked the way ours often does—shifting, fragile, easily withdrawn—I don’t think I would still be here holding onto faith.

He took all of the weight of our struggles (aka sin), while we hated Him, and called us the joy set before Him as He gave His life for ours (paraphrase of Hebrews 12:2).  I don't have the words to expound more on that to bring home how only a love that is superhuman can do that. 

Even if you don’t share my beliefs, I think the deeper question still matters:

What does it mean to be loved in a way that doesn’t disappear when life gets hard?

What does it look like to be known fully—and not rejected?

I don’t have perfectly packaged answers. But I do know this: the kind of love that doesn’t fluctuate, that doesn’t play “he loves me, he loves me not,” is the kind of love I think we’re all searching for in some way.

And maybe the first step—whatever your beliefs—is not just knowing about that kind of love, but being open to the possibility that it could be real.