Love Is Messy

She was in her late 80s.

I was rushing around, trying to make everything perfect for a church luncheon. You know the drill—centerpieces crooked, someone forgot forks, and I was sweating through my nice blouse pretending not to panic.

She was sitting alone at a table in the corner, napkin in her lap, hands folded, just watching.

I walked over with a plate of food and a smile I didn’t fully mean.

“I’m sorry we’re running behind,” I said.

She patted the seat beside her. “Come sit. Rest for a minute.”

I almost said no. I had a list. I had a schedule. I had a million things to control.

But something in her eyes told me I needed to pause.

So I sat.

She looked around the room at the chaos—children laughing, crockpots bubbling, someone dropping a spoon—and said, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I laughed. “It’s a mess.”

She smiled. The kind of smile that’s lived through grief and still believes in joy.

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s a loved mess. And that makes all the difference.”

I stared at her.

She went on, “You know, when my husband died, I kept hearing the clock tick louder. The silence was unbearable. I used to wish for chaos—just one more day of noise. One more day of interruptions and dishes and someone needing me. Love doesn’t always look like peace. Sometimes it looks like laundry. Or noise. Or tired feet.”

That’s when the lump rose in my throat.

I’d been seeing the mess as something to fix.

She saw it as evidence of love.

That day, I learned something sacred: Love isn’t in the perfect. It’s in the showing up. The doing again. The letting life get a little messy.

She didn’t just remind me how to slow down.

She reminded me what love really looks like

• Author Elisha Trask