Sometimes love doesn’t look like coming home to one thousand kisses and spotless floors.
Sometimes love looks more like soup—looks like spices and pots and pans and the vegetables all tossed and spinning across the counter. Sometimes it sounds like the loud gargle of boiling water and sharp knives against the wood—sometimes it’s a symphony of sweat and blood, all that hard work and deep love that goes into cooking up a cure. Sometimes it’s the early mornings and the late nights.
Sometimes it’s the tired feet. Sometimes it’s bags under the eyes.
But every time, every single time, it’s a sacrifice. And every time it’s an honor, even when the bones are creaking and the eyes are drooping.
100% true story.
Whether it’s the chicken soup or the potato & leek soup (or – well..both because, let’s be honest, I have leftover chicken and leeks that are about one day shy from going bad), it’s a joy.
A joy to cook for the husband who’s got all the sneezes and sniffles.
A joy to come home from a day of standing and working and giving, only to do it all again.
That is love.
And that’s what love does. That’s how it sounds and smells and makes and moves. That’s how it be. Yeah. That’s exactly how it be.
Whoever you’re loving on today. Whoever you’re giving to and doing for . . . and however you’re feeling—however tired, however restless, however I-just-can’t. . .
Pause, think, remember—joy.
All with joy because, really, it all is a joy.
Love is a labor of love.
And sometimes. . .it just looks like soup.