Looking at “Love Languages” comes and goes in popularity at my church. We hear a bit about it and then hear nothing for a long while before we hear it again. Each of the times it rises again, I take the test again, hoping to ascertain my personal “love language”. Every time, I am disappointed–as with every attempt to categorize myself, I find that I am on the border–or maybe I just want to think I’m different so I intentionally sabotage the results.
Then there are those people you can immediately place into a category–not because they are stereotypical, but because they abound so very much in that certain area. My friend Michelle jumps to mind. I don’t know how anybody who thinks about it could not see that her love language is gifts.
I’ve been helping Michelle move this last week–and as we’ve been packing or unpacking, she’ll find something she no longer wants and offer it to me. Or she’ll think of someone else who could use it. “This will be perfect for…” “I bought this for… but I forgot about it…so now I’ll give it to…” “Do you think … would enjoy this?” She’s so generous with everything–abounding in giving.
She reminds me of the chapter in II Corinthians where Paul speaks of the generosity of the Macedonians “that in a great trial of affliction…their deep poverty abounded in the riches of their liberality. for I bear witness that according to their ability, yes, and beyond their ability, they were freely willing…” (II Corinthians 8:2-3) Michelle is far from rich–she lives on government assistance and disability. She has what she needs–just barely. But even as she experiences want, even as she struggles under huge physical and emotional burdens, she searches out ways to shower gifts on others. She’ll go without so that she can give. That’s just the kind of person she is.
That’s certainly not my love language. I like giving gifts, and I like receiving them. But they’re not a way of life with me. I’m not sure what my love language is. I used to think that it was physical touch. I was always a very physically affectionate child–wanting hugs and kisses and sharing nose juice with Daddy (Eskimo kisses). My brother John’s love language is definitely physical touch–and that hasn’t lessened as he’s grown older. I don’t think my language is acts of service–that’s my Mom’s and I’m nothing like her on that count. I like to do stuff for people–but I generally don’t like receiving acts of service much–or at least, it doesn’t communicate love to me like it does to her. Which leaves quality time and words of affirmation. And those two are hard to determine between. I love spending time with people–I love a good quality chat–a chat of hearts to hearts and minds to minds. I like to do things together–like quilting with Joanna, or scrapbooking with Debbie, or eating lunch with my Dad. But I also really value the words–when someone recognizes something I’ve done, when my Dad compares me to my favorite role models, when I’m told that I matter.
I guess it isn’t so important that I know my own as it is that I know others–after all, what good does it do to know my own love language? A Love Language is something that one speaks involuntarily. I don’t need to learn how to speak my own language. Instead, I must seek to learn others’ languages–so that I can translate the love that I might easily speak in my own language into a language they can understand.
So tell me, what’s your language?