St. Valentine, the legend has it, sacrificed his life to his belief that all Christians should have the privilege of marriage.
My husband is cooking a day-after-Valentine’s-Day dinner in honor of me, but I am unworthy: latent, burrowed, growing fallow. My fingers are dry from scraping along the autumn of my mind, searching for the small pool where a few bright buttercups grow softly. But this place has been lost in the midst of a heavy frost.
So I take up a simple waiting: waiting to grow older, waiting to know more. I am waiting for You to take up the broken ground inside me and craft it strong for building. I am waiting for You to rake the leaves and find the pool. Enter in as Keeper, and I will take up my hoe.