This morning, my daughter hands me a little card that says her love for me is like a tornado. She drew a picture of a tornado and wrote, "It's like this."
I turn to her and say, "You mean it's powerful and destructive?"
She smiles and pretends she's punching me. She tries to explain the comparison: "It gets stronger each day like a tornado gets stronger with each spin."
Her tornado is a giant mess of scribble that looks terrifying.
Love is a tornado?
That can't be right.
My husband adds at breakfast that a tornado is like love because you "never know where it's coming from." It can take you by surprise (like how I met him when I least expected it).
I look at this little family. I think of the kind of love that breaks the heart and repairs it simultaneously. I think of the terrifying surrender of it, the giant mess of living lives intertwined. I think of the powerful destruction that love's wake leaves on the landscape of a heart. It's a tornado that rips you apart.
But it's the kind of devastation you endure because there's no other way to have it. It's the most beautiful storm you'll ever experience.
I hug my children--these little tornadoes in my heart--and think about the kind of love I want in my life. Let it be giant and powerful. Let it get stronger each day.
Let it destroy what in me needs to be leveled and remake a pure landscape.
(Photo: Public Domain. Credit: OAR/ERL/National Severe Storms Laboratory (NSSL) via [pingnews])