I've been thinking about love a lot lately. A friend and I were sitting in a favorite restaurant the other day, minding our own business, when a couple of impressionable youths walked in and took the booth beside us. In public, I usually try to not notice other conversations. Perhaps there was a wild breeze wafting through this climate-controlled space, I don't know. I really can't explain what got into me, but one was spouting non-stop fear to the other, who bought it wholesale. I marveled that kids like this even leave their room.

Immediately afterwards, I began to see the seeds fear had planted in my own life, and they started popping up all over. Why do I do this? Why do I do that? Such quick glances in the mirror can be quite paralyzing.

Is there an antidote for fear? How about courage? How about boldness? How about a total disregard for consequence? No, each of these may be feigned rather well. I should know, being an emotional chameleon and what not from my youth. Didn't Pharaoh pull off all three, and wasn't he still captive to the fear of letting go?

What about love? Isn't love supposed to "cast out fear," having "no fear in" it? That's strong language for a word so watered down in our day. Specifically, what kind of love does this? What does it say? Perfect love? What is that?

Is perfect love the unattainable height I've always assumed it to be? Saint Francis would say no. So would Jesus. The two voices do, in fact, compliment each other. Imagine that.

I'll relate Francis first, because this concept finally dawned on me when reading the Nikos Kazantzakis novel about him a while back. I had a "Duh!" moment, which made me reconsider the words of Jesus.

"A blessing for each stone that hits me! One blessing for one stone, two blessings for two, three for three... " According to this author, the deranged Saint had a habit of saying that whenever he entered a particularly hostile village and began talking about poverty, peace and love. At first, I dismissed this as spiritual masochism, but the idea stuck in my head long enough to see wisdom in it.

Pretty late in the novel, Francis spells it out; perfect love is love for your enemies. Lights came on! At last, Jesus' words made sense, and I got scared witless.

"Love for enemies... " isn't that in the same area as, "If you love those who love you, what good is that?" Do I do more?

Or again, same area, different book, "Woe to you when everyone speaks well of you." I suddenly realized that I'm practically enemyless. Can I really only love God as much as I love my enemy? Surely there's some middle ground. Can't I continue to separate loving God, loving my neighbor, and loving my enemy? Can such dichotomies break the grip of fear? Along with my revolving anxieties, my foes change. The demands of love remain. This was my state of mind for weeks.

Then, I was walking home from the library when I heard rocks whiz by. I ignored the first few. Luckily, the thrower wasn't a very good aim.

I turned around and thought this would put an end to it, but no. The kid just grew bolder; hurling bigger rocks my way. His companion was visibly distraught by the scenario. All that passed between my ears was the blessing of Saint Francis, so I signed, "Me love you." I kept signing that as the rocks kept coming.

"No, don't," his friend yelled over and over. "He's deaf. He says he loves you." The shower continued.

Finally, my little brother answered with a very prophetic gesture. He dropped his rocks, looked me in the eye, shook his hands - issuing an emphatic No - and then signed, "You love you!"

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