A recipe for love

When the past returns, what do we do with it?

When the song began playing—my heart stopped. I was standing in a small bookstore in Staunton, Virginia, on a rainy Monday morning.

The song—Harry Connick Jr., "A Recipe for Love."

Suddenly, I wasn't in a Virginia bookstore anymore. I was 29 years old, back in Napa, California. Megan and I had just bought our first house together—a beautiful old Victorian we were remodeling room by room. Windows open. Music playing. That very song floating through the air.

We loved it so much that we used the lyrics for our wedding invitation. That memory hit hard. Because here I was—decades later, standing in a bookstore without her by my side—a reality I could never imagine.

Listening to each word through the bookstore speakers, I realized I was at a crossroads. There will be hundreds of these moments in the days, months, and years to come—a song—a road trip—a bottle of wine—a place—a memory. Megan and I shared a lifetime of beauty, and many of those moments will unexpectedly return to me as memories.

I saw two paths forward that morning. One path would let the memories hurt me. I could feel sadness and regret. I could stir up anger or bitterness. I could wish it had all turned out differently.

Or—I could choose something else.

I could smile. I could remember how lucky I was to have had those years with Megan. To share those songs, that laughter, those quiet mornings, those wonderful glasses of Napa Valley wine, adventures, and love. And I could say thank you. Thank you for the gift of it all. Thank you for that season of life.

Thank you, God, for your grace and your wisdom, for that moment reminded me—love is never wasted. Even if it ends. Especially if you're learning to love better because of it.

No holding on to the past, but letting the change grow you. Letting it soften you. Letting it fill you with gratitude—for what was and what is still to come.

That, I think, is the real recipe for love.

Reflection for You:

What memory are you holding with pain right now?

What would it look like to hold it with gratitude instead?