Birthdays, Queso, and Love

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It was Miguel’s birthday. And I love Miguel.

But I don’t always love socializing. I’m an introvert. As much as I treasure my people and preach the importance of connecting with others, the stereotypical party event – like for a birthday – is really a strain on my heart and mind. A whole bunch of people just sitting around for the purposes of small talk . . . especially when I don’t know some of those people well . . . all the background noise which my old ears struggle to filter out . . . it’s just hard for me. So, I avoid it.

But it was Miguel’s birthday. Miguel is our Zumba instructor. He is positive and fun and energetic and makes us feel good about ourselves when we are looking fat and sweaty and gross. He’s in his final semester of nursing school, and he is going to be a rockin’ nurse. I love Miguel.

But I really didn’t want to go to his birthday party. That sounds awful. But y’all, I did have reasons. We were going to a Mexican restaurant after our Zumba class on Monday. Let’s dissect that a bit. AFTER Zumba. I would be tired and sweaty. I don’t want to do much after Zumba other than shower and sit. Alone. Quietly.

And it was a Monday. I have school Tuesday morning, early. This is my job. It’s important that I’m rested and ready to face my students on a Tuesday morning.

And have I discussed my sleep issues here? I have serious sleep issues – I’ve had them for years. I have an evening routine that I go through to shut my brain down, and it takes some time. Going to a party and THEN coming home to shower and decompress and try to get some shut-eye did not sound promising. And really, one bad night can knock me off the wagon for a week or more sometimes.

But it was Miguel’s birthday. And I love Miguel.

And love makes sacrifices. Husbands sacrifice for wives. Mothers sacrifice for children. Friends sacrifice for friends. Christ sacrificed for us – that’s how we know what love is and that love makes sacrifices. And in comparison to his sacrifices, anything we do is shabby and weak.

Of course, Miguel would have been quite understanding if I had explained all my reasons to pass on the event. Not that I would have been so uncouth as to share them all with him. I’m just saying – he’s a good guy and wouldn’t have expected me to put myself out for him. And that could have been another good excuse for me to not attend. He won’t be hurt. He might not even notice. It’s not like I’ve known him for years and years; I don’t think I’m even one of his favorite Zumba students or anything.

But I’m called to love. And love isn’t passive; it’s active. Love isn’t a feeling; it’s a decision. Love isn’t sitting at a distance looking at someone and feeling warm, fuzzy affection for them; love is walking with them through their muck . . . laughing with them over the crazy . . . working beside them for the kingdom . . . and eating chips and queso with them at a loud, crowded table in your sweaty t-shirt because the anniversary of their birth into the world is a cause for celebration.

And I do love Miguel.

So, I went. I confess that I was the first one to leave (and everyone understood). But I was glad I went. Love is what we do, friends.

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