This evening, while reading another's account of his longing for his one, true Love, I couldn't help but be struck that my love for you paled in comparison . . . and here was the shock:
The impassioned heart, mine in this instance, believes itself to be incapable of any greater longing than itself can bear. But plainly there are greater hearts; hearts whose nature can not only endure greater depths of dark aloneness, but hearts which -- in their deep forbearance -- also realize those heights of love yet undreamed of by more timid souls such as my own.
Could it be that love comes only to those who love so greatly that they neither know, nor care, of their own consumption by its flame? And, if so, what of those of us in this world who have thought their flickering candle a great torch?
Still, I'm tempted to hope. There is an unspoken kindness in these findings -- if we know where to look. For where there is only a little light there may yet be that flame into which love can come into its own fullness. And when it does, I know you'll be there.