ode to an unfinished love story

(in which you are not the main character)

I’ve been tragic drunk two times in my entire life, and last Valentine’s Day was one of them. More precisely, a friend and I had thrown a Galentine’s Day party, that newly crowned holiday of pop feminist fantasy, and invited a fresh mix of our favorite ladies. Twenty-something and thirty-something ladies. Ladies who loved men and ladies who loved women. Black ladies and white ladies. But the one identity that united us all? Church ladies.

Which made it all the more alarming when sometime after my fifth French 75, one of the church ladies found me asleep on the bathroom floor—my bathroom floor. Apparently, I had the gall to pull an Irish exit in my own home. “Oh, Erin,” she said gently. Not one to be pitied, I heaved myself off the damp bath mat, grabbed her forearm, and locked googly eyes. “I know,” I tried to assure. “I’ve got some things to work on.”

And for most of 2022 that is where I thought my story ended, with a failure of my own love and limits. So, I didn’t write about it. And I didn’t talk about it. Unless it was to assure other friends that, I know, I’ve got some things to work on. As time went on, I could tell it with more humor—me! hugging the hardwood! still trying to convince others I’ve got this!—and I could tell it with more grace—look! everyone screws up! radical self-love, right?—but the story was still principally about me.

Until I told my pastor.

“Do you want to know the best part of that story?” Pastor Lisa asked me, after clapping at all the right moments, gloriously untroubled by my troublesomeness.

“My declaration…” I began.

“No,” she cut me off. “It’s that I’ve not heard a single thing about it before now.”

“Surely…”

“Not one…”

“But church ladies!” I insisted.

“We have the very best it seems,” she said, gleaming.

So I gleamed, too. Suddenly I could see the gentle Oh, Erin. I could see the one who stayed late to load my dishwasher and the one who left a sticky note: “The best parties are often a little too fun.” I could see my co-host to whom I’d sent an apology gift card the next morning saying, “Please. This is what we do.” I could see my pastor who didn’t see Sorry Lady Role Model me but the love story of a whole unicorn church lady community. And she’d laughed. She’d laughed so long without concern.

Sometimes, I think, God laughs like this, too.

Look, there is much to be concerned about these days. And, honestly, I’m too tired to make any grand declarations of my love this Valentine’s Day. But I am into rehearsing the quieter ways love has been shown to me. Because maybe I’m not always (ever?) the main character. Maybe there’s more to my boofed love story than I can see right now. And if it’s not okay, as the late John Lennon said, then maybe it’s not the end. Maybe every cosmic love story is a little bit unfinished and goes a little something like this:

Not, “I love you.”

But, “Oh, you’ve loved me.”

And, “I know.”

We’ve got some things to work on.

XO,
Erin

me with new friend aurelia dávila pratt and her new book

P.S. The leopard jacket and I had a good time at a writing conference in Texas last week. Among the highlights? Meeting Rev. Aurelia Dávila Pratt and promptly buying a copy of her book, A Brown Girl’s Epiphany: Reclaim Your Intuition and Step Into Your Power, for every female in my household. Pure gold.

P.P.S. While in Texas, I finished a book that blew my mind. Bad Sex: Truth, Pleasure, and an Unfinished Revolution by Nona Willis Aronowitz asks the brilliant question, "What happens when personal desire doesn’t match our ideological purity?” Lots of sex positivity, zero theology, much moral feminist nuance. So good.

P.P.P.S. It’s book launch day for Duke colleagues, Kate Bowler and Jessica Richie! The Lives We Actually Have: 100 Blessings for Imperfect Days is a gorgeous book filled with gorgeous words for ordinary moments. Like a blessing “for when it is too much to handle” or a blessing “for an unfinishable day.” (Or story.) Yes, please.