We don’t talk much about love in our culture. Of lust incessantly – and of romance, falling in love. This is because love is not dramatic. It is a condition, not an exploit: a climate, not a storm. While it may intensify or moderate, once begun it does not end unless betrayed. It resembles faith, which is likewise little discussed. Faith continues, persists – where is the plot in that!

Last July Jane tripped in a parking lot, breaking both her arms so badly for several months she was practically helpless. Acquaintances congratulated me for my constancy during that period, that I did what needed doing without complaint. Their congratulations nettled. I’m no saint – I grumble all the time – but this was not the sort of thing one grumbles about. Grumbling posits a choice, an easier road: I grumble about a boring party when I could have stayed home. Here there was no choice, no easier road. Two were one and we had to do what we had to do, case closed. To suggest I had a choice mischaracterized our attachment. “For better or for worse… as long as ye both shall live.”

I saw little of love growing up. I have no idea if my parents loved one another: they never showed it. Neither did they show their children love. At my mother’s funeral, a family friend said to me, “Your mother loved you so much.” I could barely resist retorting, “You’re kidding, right?” After sixty-odd years on earth together, you’d think I’d have known. I still don’t believe it.

My children’s mother and I were passionate for a time, but we were never a good fit. She was a remarkable woman and a deeply loving mother, but we chafed, until the chafe became an insufferable sore. It hurt that we could not find our way to unconditional love. I think, if she were still living, she’d have said the same.

First, a dog, then my children, taught me love. I had friends I loved, but friendly love is not a tyrant issuing absolute demands: its heat can be dialed up or down for comfort, like a thermostat. I envied the happy marriages of friends but doubted one was possible for me.

Then into my solitude came Jane. Child of a loving family, widow of a long loving marriage, she was an old hand at love, she expected it. Could she love me? Of course, why was I making such a fuss? But could she really love me! For our first years together, I endured bouts of doubt, as I do of hypochondria, humorous to all but the sufferer. Jane smiled, waiting for them to pass.

Now and then I think about love, but I don’t often. That’s because love is where I live, my climate, not a choice. It strikes me as the only good reason to live. It mandates behavior but its commands are not onerous, being obvious. No more does one resist donning an overcoat in sub-zero weather: the climate demands it.

Love, God and morality are mysteriously yet inextricably interwoven, by disparate paths finding their way to comparable conclusions. “Beloved,” wrote Saint John, “let us love one another: for love is of God; and everyone that loves is born of God and knows God. He that loves not knows not God; for God is love.”

I’m not sure I know what that means but it sounds right.