[1] If I speak with the tongues of men, and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. [2] And if I should have prophecy and should know all mysteries, and all knowledge, and if I should have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. [3] And if I should distribute all my goods to feed the poor, and if I should deliver my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. [4] Charity is patient, is kind: charity envieth not, dealeth not perversely; is not puffed up; [5] Is not ambitious, seeketh not her own, is not provoked to anger, thinketh no evil;

[6] Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth with the truth; [7] Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. [8] Charity never falleth away: whether prophecies shall be made void, or tongues shall cease, or knowledge shall be destroyed. [9] For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. [10] But when that which is perfect is come, that which is in part shall be done away.

[11] When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But, when I became a man, I put away the things of a child. [12] We see now through a glass in a dark manner; but then face to face. Now I know in part; but then I shall know even as I am known. [13] And now there remain faith, hope, and charity, these three: but the greatest of these is charity.

What does this mean? To quote Reba McEntire “Of all the gifts love is the best.” It is worth the work, worth the sacrifice, worth the pain. Nothing else really is between man and woman. All else is dust and illusion. But real love is sacrificial in nature, and therefore quite unpopular with the gimme crowd. I hope that my husband  and I have had some success in modeling and teaching faith, hope, and love. I hope we have more time to work at our mistakes. We made a lot of them along the way, but we slugged it out anyhow.

You romantics keep your hearts and flowers. I am pretty happy with the sweat and tears, and maybe even an occasional drop of blood. The original St. Valentine was martyred after all.