I Choo-Choo-Choose You!

When I was 9 years old, I spent hours the weekend before Valentine’s Day creating a pile of cards for my classmates with construction paper, markers, and Looney Tunes stickers.

The effort was out of creative impulse and a love for Bugs Bunny, sure. But mostly it was out of pure terror.

See, at some point in my childhood I’d seen a Simpsons episode called “I Love Lisa.” In it, Lisa Simpson feels guilty that her classmate Ralph hasn’t received any Valentines and drops into his bag one with the slogan “I Choo Choo Choose You.”

Ralph takes the message to heart, and soon the entire school thinks Lisa is in love with the crayon-eating kid known for quips like “Yay, sleep! That’s where I’m a Viking!” and “My cat’s breath smells like cat food!”

To little fourth-grade me, that sounded like the worst humiliation possible. I had to take every precaution, lest some slimy boy think I was in love him. Didn’t matter if he was a crayon-eater or a cool kid – I wasn’t socially functional enough for any of it. (Fourth-grade Tara spent a lot of time writing elaborate stories about aliens. So about the same as now, but with less confidence.)

I got over my fear of boys (obviously), but I’m still fairly dysfunctional when it comes to expressing love for other people.

This morning my best friend on earth texted to cancel our sons’ playdate because she’d been up all night with a fever and was feeling really awful. I called her because I was worried about her,  and while I managed to relate my fear and worry (and a little bossiness) just fine, I didn’t say what I should have – and what I wanted to – before I hung up the phone: “Feel better soon, I love you.”

I thought about that all day. I tell my husband and sons and parents that I love them all the time, but I barely drag it out otherwise, at least in terms of people.

You hear all the time that we cheapen the word “love” by throwing it around so much.  But I don’t buy that.

OK, so maybe saying I love frosting or Fleetwood Mac or early-’90s professional wrestling isn’t the best use of a word expressing deep emotion, but I think instead of trying to back off on “love,” I should use it more. A lot more.

It should be as easy for me to express my enthusiasm for people as it is for me to gush over a fresh cupcake. It should be as easy for me to say I love another human being as it is to say I love the 1997 live version of “Silver Springs” where you can totally feel Stevie Nicks’ rage. (I really do love Fleetwood Mac.) It should be totally natural.

But somehow I still feel like a fourth-grader scared of handing out too-mushy Valentines. And I guess a little fear is good, to make sure I’m not being sentimental or goofy, but really loving – not necessarily saying the words outright, but pouring the same intensity and devotion into all my interactions with the people I love.

The even more intimidating leap happens when I recognize that “the people I love” doesn’t get to just include my best friends. It gets to include my neighbors—as in, every person I encounter—and my enemies.

I’m not even sure how to go about that, really. What does loving everyone –really loving them – even look like? (The easy answer to that for us Jesus-y inclined folks is “Jesus,” but even then, how does that translate to everyday dorks like me?)

But I want to be that way, whatever it looks like, however scary it is. I don’t want to spend my life carefully crafting meaningless responses to the world just so I avoid potentially looking like a dweeb.

I’ve got to let my love, in all its dweebiness, into the world to mingle with every other awkward, imperfect, wonderful love out there.

So what do you say, readers? Can I choo-choo-choose you?