Irony may be on his deathbed, but now and then he sits bolt upright and wide-eyed, scaring the mourning relatives. He did this the other day. I jumped, and my heart raced when he said: “Fear of love keeps you from love.” And then he slumped back into his pillows and the doctor told us to go home and get some sleep.
If fear is my worst emotion, then love is my best. But trust the worst to try keeping me from the best. Fear is the proverbial pot of crabs, set on the stove to boil. If one of them finds a way to reach the rim, the others will pull him back in; if they can’t escape, they don’t want anyone else to. Fear doesn’t want me to know that there’s a way out. Fear is afraid of Love, so it keeps me from it. Oh, the times I sat, turning red, in boiling water!
Perhaps the deeper irony is that true Love took away all fear on the Cross, and yet I still yank fear back and hold onto it. Ridiculous.
So I decide to let ill irony die, and fear with him.
Love is living water. Love is refreshing, restoring, resplendent. Once in its wide and lovely waters, there should be no hint of a desire for that pot on the stove.
I am writing an obituary for fear and a “thank you” card for Love.