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Love
Webster describe love as affection based on admiration: a warm attachment: brotherly concern for others: mans adoration for God: to take pleasure in: and, to thrive in. But there is no actual definition or words that an try and describe love. Its more than just a word, or a feeling, love is a verb, an action. Its like a sixth sense. You can not see love. You can see the evidence of love portrayed on faces, but love itself you cannot see. You cannot hear love, although the words I love you will try to be heard. It is impossible to smell love or taste love. You cannot feel love, though you can feel the effects of love. The best way to love is to actually show it. Like was mentioned earlier, love is a verb. Through actions do you project love. It doesnt have to be something extravagant like a million dollar donation to the local orphans home, even though that shows a lot of love. It could be as simplistic as a million dollar smile or a gesture of kindness.
There are three different types of love: agape, philio, and lust. Agape love is the special love between God and man. A relationship between you as the individual and Him alone. It is the purest sort of love. Philio love is the human affection of mortals. It is beyond tangible wanting of the other persons outward appearance. This kind of love is connecting with someone so that you feel them so deeply in spirit and in soul. Lust is the last form of love. This love is the sexual desire to be with someone in particular, the physical attraction. It is meant to be, but could be immoral if occurs outside the confinements of marriage.
Without love, the world would be in a cold, dark, and lonely state. All there would be is hatred and corruption. Not a place where God would dwell. He is love. He describes love to perfection in His Scriptures: Love is patient, love is kind, love does not envy, and is never proud. Love is a verb.
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Jane
Meet Jane. Late 1930s. She goes by unnoticed in the background. A nameless face to go with her drab wardrobe. A delicate, fine bone structure accented by a hollow blankness in her eyes. A sickly, colorless, translucent complexion marred by a bluish whelp across her left cheekbone, the product of the bottle. Brown hair, the color of mud, stringing, matted dirty, across the skeletal shoulders and back. The little, gray, mud and soot streaked dress looks as if its better days have come and gone. It does nothing to fend off the cold, and makes her look all the more pitiful. Barefoot, nails cracked and grimy. She is about five feet tall and sixteen years of age. She, coming from a broken family, is the only one who will look for work. It would break your heart to see the look of refusal and hatred on the faces of those who turn her away. Oh, but shes used to it. She lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders and goes on. Willing to labor for whatever will be given in return. She boldly faces those who cast looks of disgust and disdain at her request for work. The cold winds whistle between tall skyscrapers and buildings, and down through the alleyways. She shivers then trudges on to the next door, then the next. Chin up and back straight, showing no emotion. A perfect picture of battered and scarred, strength and boldness. The shadowed eyes and tattered dress, but a will to press on.
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