Be Mine

Actually, I think the words most typically look like this…

 Be
Mine

And in mid-February these letters are assembled on the top of a petrified glob of sugar, tinted with color, and molded into a Valentine-shaped human organ.

It was Valentine’s Day 1975 that I went on a lengthy winter walk in rural Indiana with the woman who would one day become my soulmate. It was my first significant conversation with her. It felt like magic.

It didn’t take long after that February walk for me to realize that there was something refreshing, inspiring, and captivating about Mary. Her level of relational confidence lagged behind mine. I pressed forward as she tapped the brakes. I pushed to close the deal, while she was still in the due diligence process. I rushed to Be Mine… while she righteously wrestled with who she was.

On April 8, 1978 I closed the deal.

Really?

What deal? Was it really a deal?

I thought it was.

Mary. A picturesque church. A minister. Family. Friends. A beautiful dress. A rented tux. “I do”. “I will”. “With this ring…”

Be Mine.

Sounds romantic. Sounds appropriate. Sounds sweet. After all, it’s biblical…

My beloved is mine, and I am his; (Song of Solomon 2:16a)

But this language was poetic, not transactional, and I fear that too often we make it the latter.

Mary is not mine.

She never has been. She never will be. She never should be.

Relational ownership is not the goal. Not in marriage. Not with children. Not with friendships. Not with family.

It’s about the Imago Dei. Image bearers of God.

We are stewards. Sacredly entrusted with the lives and love and pain and joy and burdens of others.

But somehow, “Be Stewards”, doesn’t have the same “sugar high” ring as Be Mine. Hallmark is not racing to develop a new line of Valentine’s cards.

The reality is that we don’t even “own ourselves”. We are stewards of our own lives.

…You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body. (1 Corinthians 6:19–20)

Mine. The language of a toddler. The philosophy of the powerful. The religion of the self-absorbed.

No… Mary wasn’t mine in February of 1975, and she’s not mine today. That’s what makes her love so life-giving. It’s why loving her brings me so much joy.

Imago Dei.

Image bearers.

Stewards of every precious conversation. Guardians of the pinnacle of God’s creation.

Nothing more. Never more. But nothing less.

You are His. You are unleashed to love. Empowered to steward. Compelled to serve.

This is love.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

I love you, Mary. Now, more than ever.