My man and I agreed early on in our relationship not to make a huge fuss over Valentine’s Day, because let’s be honest, anniversaries pretty much cover the whole “let’s celebrate our love” sentiment. But every year, when the Day of Love rolls around, I feel it. The ache to celebrate.
I’ve perfected the art of chasing that ache away.
This year I decided long before the 14th of February that I was not going to feel it. Facebook would not taunt me with pictures of beautiful flowers on doorsteps. I avoided the seasonal aisle like the common cold. How very wise and mature, I told myself.
I celebrated alone, recalling all the things God has done in my marriage, all the ways He has walked beside us, healed us, grown us. It was good. I was good. Really, good.
I sat in the middle of a sloppy mountain of laundry, dirty hair snatched up in a bun, when my man waltzed in at 5:00 p.m. on Valentine’s Day and announced he was taking me out to dinner. A celebration wasn’t in my plans, and he would soon find out that I was in no mood to celebrate.
I did the only reasonable thing I knew to do: I blew up.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t tell me. He knows I hate surprises. This same guy perfects every prank he pulls yet has enough sense to never ever bring any of them my way. He truly believed surprising me would be something other than a reckless disaster.
He tried something spontaneous, but forgot his wife is allergic to spontaneity.
As I fussed and questioned and completely lost sight of this tender gesture, my heart quipped out words from the deepest parts of my heart: Does he even know me?
When my amazing husband tried to whisk me away for an unscheduled date on Valentine’s Day, I threw a pathetic hissy fit. I wanted clean hair and something pretty to wear; I wanted to not smell like apple juice and sweat.
But his invitation snagged something deeper. I was so proud that I didn’t have crazy expectations, because in my mind, those expectations were causing me harm.
Hiding underneath all my self-protection was this longing to celebrate and be celebrated.
It turns out that expectations had nothing to do with the ache. My man did everything right, exceeded my expectations and still, I felt it. Curbing my expectations as a means of control didn’t change the fact that, underneath it all, my heart longs to be celebrated, to be fully known and fully loved.
In the end, I curled my dirty hair, put on some lipstick, and let my husband take me out on a Valentine’s date. I found a cute outfit at the very bottom of the laundry pile. (Bonus: it was clean!)
On the way to the restaurant, I told him how dead wrong I was and promised to leave all of my attitude—at least most of it—in the truck. We ate way too much food and laughed way too loud. Neither of us will forget Valentine’s Day 2017 anytime soon. Since then, I’ve wondered whether this ache is evidence of my heart’s design.
What if it isn’t something to pray away or control or hide?
What difference would it make if we leaned in and embraced this ache, claimed it as proof we were made for another place? Could this unsatisfied longing become a reminder of God’s promises to come? Could we solve the confusion by shifting our expectations from this place to the one we’re destined for?
Zechariah 3:17 says, “The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.”
God makes a pretty big fuss over us, because He delights in us. His love calms all our insecurities and quiets all our unanswered questions. And here’s my favorite part: He sings over us. Loud shouts of celebratory joy. Over you. Over me.
The very next verse is underlined in my bible, because the words speak directly into this ache I’ve tried and tried to chase away. “I will remove from you all who mourn over the loss of your appointed festivals, which is a burden and reproach for you.” (Zechariah 3:18)
The city is in ruins, the temple destroyed, the people dispersed, and celebrations forgotten. Zechariah describes the absolute brokenness of this fallen world. He goes on to talk about justice and rescue and the gathering of those who have been oppressed and have suffered shame.
The book ends with the promise of an elaborate homecoming.
This precious promise is sturdy enough to hold all my expectations and the entirety of my hope. When the grandest celebration of all time commences, those who belong to God will be in His presence, fully seen and fully known.
So, how do we handle this ache to celebrate and the longing to be known? What do we do until Jesus comes back to take us home? Zephaniah would tell us to draw near to God. Acknowledge the ache, accept it rather than try to chase it away. Keep celebrating, but quit looking to earthly celebrations to accomplish what only Jesus can satisfy.
The deep longing in our hearts is a universal ache, not a personal flaw.
This doesn’t change the fact that our hearts will continue to ache, but it aligns our longing with truth. Truth’s primary job is to set our hearts free. Free to love, free to dance, free to celebrate. And while we wait, rather than chase away the ache that haunts us, let’s worship the Mighty One in our midst.