Romance has been defined as the offspring of fiction. It’s our deep human quest to find the unattainable perfect match. We will ransack the world and rummage through the past and go great distances in search of it. In the best of circumstances, we want that ideal relationship, freckled with small flaws of course, but ones that characterize its uniqueness. The man, in his boyhood, wants to be the hero—the knight in shining armor who will rescue the damsel in distress. We ladies want to be that damsel. We want a hero to sweep us off our feet, to rescue us from all uncertainty and give us secure freedom and a safe place to call home.
As little girls, we spent time fictionalizing the future. We played with dolls, helped mom bake cookies, twirled among the flowers in bare feet and pink frilly dresses; we idolized Cinderella and all that she was. We dreamed in fairytales and castles in the sky.
The boys played with race cars and climbed trees and got their hands dirty. They returned from the playground messy--caked in mud and filth. They declared war on each other’s makeshift fortresses and aimed their cap guns in defiance. They pretended to be cops or robbers or superman while the little girls dressed up as princesses.
Perhaps this is where the romantic idealism was birthed. The classic fairytale originated at our age of innocence--before we were inflicted with the world’s lies and offensive indulgences and transgressions. Yet the more life I experience, the more I witness the world settling for less than their childhood dreams.
Perhaps because romance has been fictionalized in literature, we subconsciously believe our childhood ideals are frivolous and far-fetched. Perhaps we learn from society that we should maintain a realistic approach; the world is an ugly place and nothing beautiful and pure could possible emerge from a people so corrupt by popular culture. What a myth and a façade we have fallen for. Perfection does not exist, this I am aware of. But to say that something so pure and lovely cannot emerge from the rubble of our past is absurd. What more proof of God’s existence than to wait patiently for the one He’s chosen just for you?
Sure, perfection is unattainable. But finding everything your heart desires in another human being? Possible. Why would God put on our hearts such romantic idealisms and hunger for another heart that beats the same rhythm if it was impractical? My God does not tinker with my mind. He does not author confusion and disappointment. He longs for me to be happy and content and on fire for Him. He is my first love. And if I am burning with passion for my Heavenly Father, why would He refrain from providing me with that tangible soul to share that type of love with?
If it weren’t possible, why would Christ command husbands and wives to love each other as He loves the church? If it weren’t possible, then why was God so in love with His children that He sacrificed His own son on our behalf? Christ sacrificed His own life because He was so infatuated with us. He loved us unconditionally. His love is the model for marriages and ingredient for a permanent romance. Christ’s love never dies. It never fails.
True love never fails.
Romance is not an offspring of fiction. Romance is an offspring of truth.