“If I do not have love, I gain nothing.” – 1 Corinthians 13:3
I recently read a Daily Bread reflection about college sweethearts who married and built a life together. Years later, the wife was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s at the age of 47. Her husband became her caregiver. What moved me deeply was when the writer, Karen Pimpo, quoted him:
“Alzheimer’s has given me the opportunity to love and serve my wife in ways that were unimaginable when I said ‘I do.’”
The article ended by pointing to the ultimate model of love God Himself. As written in John 3:16, He sent His only Son so that we might have life. And one sentence lingered in my heart long after I finished reading:
“The act of sacrifice, motivated by love, has changed the world forever.”
With Valentine’s Day approaching and the world painted in red restaurants filled with couples, social media flooded with flowers and sweet captions I found myself reflecting quietly. For many, it is a day of celebration. For others, it can feel like a reminder of absence. Of being alone. Of not belonging to the trend. But what is love, really? Is it only candlelight dinners and roses? Or is it something deeper something quieter and far more costly.
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My thoughts drifted to Scripture, to the story found in Genesis 22:1-14 when God asked Abraham to offer his son Isaac as a burnt offering. Isaac was not just any son. He was the promised child. The one Abraham had waited and prayed for. The fulfillment of a covenant.
I cannot fathom that moment. How did Abraham walk up that mountain? How did he gather the wood, build the altar, and bind his son without collapsing in doubt? The text does not record protest. It records obedience. When Isaac asked, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” Abraham answered, “God Himself will provide.”
That was not passive faith. That was trust. And at the very moment when Abraham raised the knife, God stopped him. “Do not lay a hand on the boy,” He said. A ram was provided in Isaac’s place. God saw Abraham’s heart not merely his love, but his complete trust.
As I pondered this, the story became painfully personal.
This brought me back to those nights in the hospital when my own son would look at me, drained of strength, and whisper, “Ma… I’m already tired. I can’t do this anymore.” Those words did not simply reach my ears they pierced through my soul.
And yet, even as he spoke them, something inside me refused to surrender him. I was not ready to let him go. His brother was not ready. Our family was not ready. Letting go was not something my heart could accept. I was that selfish. We never complained to God. Not once. But if I am honest now, I see it clearly, I was desperate. Desperate in the quietest way.
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Every hour felt heavy. Every minute felt like I was knocking on heaven’s door. I would go to the chapel each morning and offer a thanksgiving Mass not after the miracle, but before it. I thanked God in advance for healing that had not yet come. I requested our thanksgiving intention to be announced during Mass, speaking words of gratitude while my son was still lying in that hospital bed.
Even when circumstances said otherwise, I declared thanksgiving. Was that faith? Yes. But it was also something deeper. It was trust. Not the calm, polished kind of trust we often speak about. But the trembling, stubborn, relentless kind. The kind that refuses to doubt God’s power even when fear whispers louder. The kind that says, “I know You can. I will not diminish who You are.”
And God, in His mercy, answered. In a way that even the doctors described as “a new case.” Something they had not seen before. A miracle. Just like Abraham on that mountain, provision came at the very moment it was needed. God saw not just my pleading but my trust.
As I write this now, something within me whispers gently, “You got it, Mariza.” Trust. Maybe that is what God desires most not perfection, not eloquent prayers, but a heart that does not doubt Him. You cannot come before Him wearing a divided heart. There are only two choices: either you trust Him completely, believing that nothing is impossible for Him or you quietly decide that what you are asking is beyond His power.
But how can we belittle the God who created heaven and earth? The Giver and Keeper of life?
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In realizing this, I feel small not in shame, but in awe. How vast He is. How limited my understanding has sometimes been.
This Valentine’s Day, as the world celebrates visible expressions of love, I am reminded that the deepest love may be unseen. It may look like a husband bathing his wife who no longer remembers his name. It may look like a mother kneeling in a hospital chapel before sunrise. It may look like Abraham climbing a mountain with trembling hands but an unshaken heart.
If there is one thing this journey has taught me, it is this: trust is not just a word we say when things are easy. It is not a definition we memorize or a verse we quote. Trust is an act. It is choosing to believe without demanding explanations. It is kneeling without questioning why. It is thanking God before the miracle arrives. I have learned that real trust does not always feel strong. Sometimes it trembles. Sometimes it cries. But it refuses to walk away. If you are in a season where love feels costly, where prayers feel repetitive, or where answers seem delayed, I gently encourage you do not let go. Trust Him fully. Not halfway. Not conditionally. Completely.
Because when love is anchored in trust, it changes everything. It did. It changed ours. My son is a living testament of God's walking unmesurable love.
Love is not proven only in romance, love is proven in trust. Thank You, loving and trustworthy God.
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