Mo sings this song several times a day (and when I say “sing”, I actually mean yells at the top of her lungs), “I love ANYONE. ANYONE I LOVE. ANY any anyone, I LOVE. I LOVE LOVE LOVE ANYONE!….”
You get the idea.
I’ve tried gently correcting her, “Everyone, Love. You love everyone, Mo Bug.”
“EVERYONE, ANYONE I love. I love ANY ANY ANYONE!”
It doesn’t bother me any more. Because she’s right. She loves anyone.
Just think about that for a second.
Everyone feels like a group hug. Like you’re embracing the whole world, and everyone’s holding hands singing kumbaya.
Anyone? Now that involves picking a single soul from the whole earth, looking her or him in the eye and saying, “I love you.”
That seems much more difficult to me. That one person could come from prison, from the street. They could be that person that really bugs you at work. They could be mentally unstable, from a completely different generation, different culture… Could I still love that one person?
Mo could. I’m sure of it. Here’s why:
Our car was stolen a couple nights ago. My car, really. Well, I still call it my car, because it was my very first car. The Accord that Andy drove to work was stolen from a hotel parking lot in Tacoma, in the dead of night and driven to who knows where.
It’s a real bummer. And it may seem silly to be mourning its loss. Nothing of earth-shattering importance happened in that car.
During most of my major life events of the last 10 years, that little Honda Accord was in the backdrop:
First I love you.
Leaving my wedding.
Moving across the country.
Driving to the hospital to deliver my babies, terrified.
Driving away from the hospital with my babies, relieved and still terrified.
Delivering my husband safely to work and safely back to my arms, every day.
Road trips. Fender benders. Sing alongs. Arguments.
Snowy mountain passes. Desolate stretches of desert.
Many, many, many miles.
My life happened in that car. Every single day.
So, it makes sense (at least to me) that I’m sad. That I was angry, even.
I was cursing the person who stole our car (mostly under my breath), while we were driving to church (I know, I know. I’m a saint).
Stupid, no good, rotten, dirty, son of a bad word…It has one silver door and 275,000 miles on it. What are you even going to do with it?
From the back seat Mo starts yelling “ANYONE! I LOVE ANYONE!!…I love ANY, ANYONE!…”
And at first I was annoyed.
“Everyone, Mo. You love everyone,” but she continued on the same way.
And then there was a moment of profound grace.
Anyone? I heard a whisper. Would you love anyone?
I’ve told this story to a couple people, and, spoken, it always comes out a little cheesy. A little self-righteous. But I assure you it was not.
It was humbling.
I sat (well, drove) a little stunned, tears in my eyes. My grumbling turned into prayer.
Ok person, I’m really bummed you took my car. But I also feel an immense sadness for you. I don’t know you, but I imagine that when you were Mo’s age, you didn’t want to grow up to be a car thief. You must need that car more than we do, so I give it up. I forgive you, and I hope that you are loved.
Actually, I know you are loved by at least one person.
She’s yelling it from the back seat.
I’m still hoping that the car was just taken for a joy ride and is sitting abandoned somewhere. If anyone sees a green Honda Accord with one silver door, looking a little lost, let me know.
UPDATE: The police found our car! Yay! And it’s not even that far away. God is good.