So I hate Valentine’s Day as an event. I’m not a card curmudgeon or some sort of purist about St. Valentine. There’s just too much painful history there lurking in the recesses of my mind whenever February 14 rolls around on the calendar.
This year I took a different tack and sent my family Valentine gifts – something I haven’t done since the kids were kids. It felt good and right and done in advance, I could and did retire the day from my consciousness.
So it was that yesterday I was vaguely aware of the day as I went about my pastor duties and that was good enough.
At Mark’s funeral, I mentioned the cruel irony of bidding a husband farewell on Valentine’s Day and then spoke about how life is not a Hallmark card. That was my observance of Valentine’s Day, and that was good enough.
In the evening, I visited with Cindy and Brenda to prepare for Guy’s funeral this afternoon. We sat at Cindy’s kitchen table and remembered Guy as Kirsten came to sit for a moment on her mother’s lap and left, returning to give her grandmother a green duct-tape purse, which I admired greatly. Off she went again, only to return some time later with a bright pink duct-tape purse for me, which she then filled with candy from her own white paper bag filled with cards and treats from her school Valentine’s exchange. I loved that custom when I was in school and was delighted when Kirsten shared with me, with the very special bonus of a new purse.
Coming from West Virginia as I do, I’ve long known duct tape is the solution to the world’s problems. I’ve made an emergency belt out of duct tape, after all. But a duct-tape purse? Now that’s special – for yesterday, it mended a wounded heart.