There is a theory that we each express love in different ways that can be classified broadly under 5 “love languages“:
Words of Affirmation
Acts of Service
It’s interesting that our two older children seem to have preferences for the way that they give and receive love. Today I have been wondering what makes us develop these kind of preferences; are we born hard-wired for a love language or are there environmental influences in our development that cause us to develop preferences?
Do these preferences develop because that is how we experience love, or do we develop a craving for a love language if we experience a deficiency in it?
Why do I need words of affirmation?
Is there an age after which I can change my preferred love language? Or is that a default setting that I return to?
In case you are wondering Child 1 responds best to words of affirmation and Child 2 prefers physical touch, for the time being.
Tonight I am helping out with the Birmingham Soup Run. Faith groups around the city are organised in a rota to provide meals and hot drinks to the homeless in the city centre at 8pm every night of the week.
Our group does the 4th Friday of every month. We meet up to make crates of sandwiches, flasks of soup and tea and catch up with one another before piling into a couple of cars and giving out free food on the pavement, opposite a multi-story car park.
In some way, I feel it gives me a bit more authenticity or integrity to talk and write about community and social justice. Perhaps I am doing “my bit” for the poor and downtrodden, but I don’t feel a sense of triumph at the end of the night, or feel like patting myself on the back…
I just feel sad. Really sad. The brief exchanges I have with our friends who receive the food make me realise how human, how broken, how real these people are. For a short time, I get a glimpse and a whiff of their lives and it makes me feel that a few hours once a month is not what a first Century rabbi had in mind when he spoke about separating the sheep from the goats and giving away my shirt and coat to those who need them.
Far from feeling happy that I might have done a good thing by taking part in the soup run, I feel frustrated that I am constrained by the norms of society and my own fear from getting involved in the lives of these broken people. I don’t want to pay of my conscience with a couple of hours of good deeds, but desire a heart that is big enough to care for them all dearly.
They are all someone’s brother, father, grandfather, daughter. All I can do is silently pray for them, knowing and secretly hoping that I won’t be called to be the answer to my own prayers.