'Only gradually did it occur to me that these complicated responses - grief at the other's rejection, terror for the other's well-being and guilt for endangering it, attention to the minutest aspects of another's condition, defense of the other's right to choose his own way - are the marks not of repulsion but of passionate attachment. Everything in my experience and education had suggested that "love" was reactive, an upwelling of delight caused by the the beloved's pleasing looks or ways. My beloved did not please me. In fact, much of the time he drove me stark ravers. But he absorbed me utterly. And still does. Just this morning we were playing computers. a sport that highlights not only the quickness and grace of his mind but also his tact as a teacher. I'm installing a new system and turning my old one over to him, a process that would render me paralytic with stupidity if he didn't keep reassuring me that we're having here is fun. Now he's gone off, and my studio, which generally looks as though a whirlwind had recently torn through, has acheived a new apotheosis of chaos, crowned by his forgotten black felt hat on top of the bookcase. We're just like that. Matthew and I.
If this is love - and it is - then I can faintly glimpse what the love of God might be, So long as I understand it as a response to my pleasigness - if I was good, then God would love me (and contrariwise, if I was bad, then God would throw me into hell, the most hateful gesture imaginiable) - I couldn't believe in it, since the chances of my ever being good enough to merit the love of God were slenderer than a strand of silk. But suppose God takes no particular delight in me at all. Suppose God finds me about as attractive as I found Matthew during the the years when razorblades dangled from his ears and his room was littered with plates and glasses growing long green hairs and his favourite band was called Useless Pieces of Shit. Suppose God keeps me steadily in sight, agonizing over my drunken motorcycle rides and failed courses. laughing at my jokes, putting in earplugs and attending my gigs, signing for my release at the police station, weeping with me as we bury the dead dog...'
Nancy Mairs, Ordinary Time, p.146.
