LOVE IS LOVE | THE NARRATIVE ARC
Love’s Labors Are Not Lost
Another kind of love story
When I came downstairs Friday morning things were pretty much as I expected. The Mall Diva was working her way steadily through a box of tissues and Tiger Lilly had her head buried in her arms on the dining room table, crying. What I had feared had come upon me. Now what?
When we talk about “love” we usually mean romantic love, called eros in Greek. There are other Greek terms for love, however, including philia — affectionate friendship and loyalty; agape — a decision to love unconditionally; and storge (stor-jay), which is a sense of responsibility for family, community, and even inanimate objects that depend on us.
All are powerfully motivating and hard to master in ourselves — and difficult to create in others. That is because all forms risk our hearts, and experience is often a painful teacher. My daughters and I learned this painfully well.
One summer evening my girls, who we refer to online as the Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly, discovered a baby bunny abandoned in our front yard. It was out in the open far from any cover and shivering despite the warm temperature. Charcoal-colored and barely three inches long, with the tiniest ears and paws, it was of course irresistibly cute.
The girls raced back into the house with the little lost soul, eager to perform an emergency rescue and to show me the latest addition to our family menagerie.
Despite their enthusiasm (or because of it), my heart fell even as I tried to keep it from showing on my face. Not that the girls would have noticed, intent as they were on the bunny which had already been named Alfalfa for the way his fur stood up between his ears. I knew there was virtually no hope for the little guy (we all just assumed it was a male), but I couldn’t think of what to do to avoid the inevitable trauma. All alternatives would end in tears.
I could be the big meanie and forbid them to bring Alfa — , I mean, the bunny, into the house to prevent a bigger hurt later. That would mean heartlessly abandoning it to its already delayed fate out in the big yard. The other option was to keep it and hope for a miracle, or that at least a meaningful lesson could be learned without too much suffering.
As I pondered these unpleasant alternatives, Mall Diva announced that she was going to nurse the bunny. So be it, then, I thought.
The rest of the evening and through that night she ministered to the little guy, offering water and trying to keep him warm. No longer shivering, the rabbit instinctively hopped close to her to snuggle. In the morning she was downstairs for breakfast, tired but glowing, Alfalfa comfortably at home in the pouch pocket of her hoodie. I was somewhat surprised but encouraged that he was still alive.
We had limited internet at home in those days, so once I got to work I did an online search for information on how to take care of a wild baby bunny. Amazingly, there was a lot of information on what to feed it and how to simulate the care its mother would provide.
The information also was pretty direct about the slim chances for success.
I quickly e-mailed the info home to the girls and they and their mother did their best, especially Mall Diva who pored over the many pages, getting an in-depth biology lesson. By evening the rabbit was even acting frisky, hopping around and appearing content.
At about 2:30 Friday morning, however, Mall Diva appeared in our bedroom. The bunny was struggling. I tried to go back to sleep so I could go to work in the morning, while she and her mother sat with Alfalfa until he expired about 30 minutes later. Of course, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I knew my daughters were going to be devastated and I grieved for them and tried to think of what comfort I could offer.
When I came downstairs Friday morning things were pretty much as I expected. Mall Diva was working her way steadily through a box of tissues and Tiger Lilly had her head buried in her arms on the dining room table, crying. What I had feared had come upon me. Now what?
As the Diva approached me I folded her in my arms and whispered what was in my heart: I was proud of her, proud of the way she threw herself unreservedly into trying to bring hope in a hopeless situation, proud of her for not regarding her comfort while trying to bring comfort to another. Still, as I drove to work, broken-hearted for my kids’ sake, I asked out loud: “God, what was the point?” (By now maybe you’re asking the same thing about this story).
As the day went on it became clear to me that it was a meaningful lesson — both for my girls and for me.
John Adams wrote, “Duty is ours. Results are God’s.” Supposed lost causes may cross our path at any time, brought about both by injustice or indifference and brought upon both the innocent and the complicit. We get the choice to respond with our heads or with our hearts, though often filtered through our own experiences and outlook.
On that day I remembered the times when I had been confronted with someone suffering in fear and in pain as a result of others’ actions or their own decisions. I remembered the times when I had stepped out in faith, despite my fears and doubts, and risked my comfort, emotions, and even reputation to try and make a difference.
I remembered the thrill of being useful, and the joy of witnessing turnarounds and even miracles.
I also remembered other times when I did the same and when things — so far as I can see — have not yet turned out as well.
Sadder still, I remembered times when I sidled to the other side of the road rather than get involved.
Perhaps I was afraid of being hurt in what appeared to be a hopeless cause or I felt helpless, or maybe I judged people to be deserving of their fate without remembering what I deserved. In these cases, though I might have tried to obscure it with rationalization, my duty was clear even if the outcome wasn’t.
The revelation that restores clarity, however, is that it is not faith in myself (or another placing his faith in me) that changes the situation and makes the difference, but faith in God. The results are up to him, and even a presumed failure may yet serve an ultimate purpose. I don’t have to know the outcome; all I have to know is my duty and how to love.
Eros is driven by attraction and happens more easily. Philia comes with time. Agape and storge, take time as well as conscious commitment, and an openness to embrace the risks.
We never know when a dire need may appear before us, and for my daughters, this episode was an early experience. No other thought occurred to them but to act with compassion and mercy, in storge, toward one of God’s creatures, and both say they would do the same again even knowing how things would turn out. I have seen that lesson continue to be lived out in their later lives as well.
In this, I can be content that neither they — nor Alfalfa — failed.
My other published “Love Stories”:
