Love is an intricately woven mantle made of golden threads. Soft and warm like cotton. Fine and beautiful like silk. Luxurious as cashmere.

A loving hand drapes this fine material over the shoulders of her lover, declaring him King of her heart. He takes a similar mantle, as beautiful and smooth as a velvet, as rare and fine as Vicuna, and places it faithfully upon her shoulders where she wears it gladly, in acceptance of his high regard for her.

Their love for each other is beautiful, and all can see how well they wear it, how elegant the fit.

Despite the mantles they wear, they are now servants, delighting in bringing each other closer to the heavens through gentle ministration, careful attention, mutual affection, unfailing respect, and grateful service. Each gives. Each receives. A faithful reciprocity that wraps them both in royal robes, covers them in it’s warmth, and protects them from the harshest elements.

This is love applied correctly.

Yet, in the hands of many, love is a dishrag; dirty and filled with holes. They misuse it.

This precious fabric has often been given without careful consideration, at great cost to the giver. Yes, it’s true, the one who receives it without knowing it’s worth, may grow to know it, and soon wear it worthily. But far too often (far, far too often), they instead devalue the giver, disrespect the relationship, and so drag that fine material over the rocks, and through the mud, until it is utterly ruined.

What happens you ask? What happens when love is misused? I’ll tell you a story in brief. Listen carefully to a tale of woe. It won’t take much time.

He tossed the word at her and she reached for it, reached up to her tippy toes and scooped it up where it fell. He said it. He said: ‘I love you’, so it must be true. ‘I love you. I love you. I love you. I do.’ He said it so many times, it lost all meaning, but she held on to it. Tight, with both hands and she gave him it’s essence, it’s truth, while he gave her only the word. She gave him the mantle of golden thread, and in return he put on her back an invisible cloth, made of nothing but lies. It was so heavy, it dragged her down to the ground until her face was covered in grime, and in tears.

Now what will she do? She has given away her love to someone who has no use for it, someone who took shears to it. Shredded it. Tossed it down. Stepped on it. Now, she feels ripped apart like the mantle, discarded like the cloth, that was once so beautiful, but that now lies filthy, used, abused, torn in her hands.

She has only one option, and pray to God, that she knows it. She must go to the cloth-maker. Her garment needs to be cleaned up and rebuilt by the master. None other will do. Her heart and worth must be restored with exquisite patience.

The mantle may once more be placed in her hands. Whole and lovely. Vibrant and opulent. Elegant and highly-priced. Beautiful and new. And trust that this time she’ll be more careful in her choice of who to give it to. She must. She now knows the cost of the fabric of love. It is no cheap material. She now knows it can be said without being felt. It can be uttered without meaning. Oh yes, this time, she will choose more wisely. This time she’ll be more careful with ‘love’.