By Lydia Veator — 17 Apr 2025

Return to Love

A gentle spring greeting from our family to yours.

Reflections for Eastertide

There was a season that I became bitter.
I didn’t plan to. But the isolation hollowed something out in me.
People disappeared. Community frayed.
And somewhere in that silence, I forgot what it felt like to be seen— to feel connected.

I had a baby.
Then another.
Three years apart—but each birthed in the same long stretch of quiet.

Beautiful years. Lonely years.
Sometimes both in the same breath.

The fierce kind of love.

Lately, I’ve been catching glimpses of the beauty again.
I watch my son stand taller in his shoes,
laugh with his whole body, ask brave questions.
I hold my infant daughter close,
and something ancient stirs—
a love so primal it growls.

There’s a kind of love that doesn’t just feel.
It defends. It weeps. It would burn the world down for one more breath.
This is parenthood.
It rewires you.
It brands your heart with belonging.
It stretches you across time—
past biology, beyond ego,
into something that feels eternal,
and yet leaves you praying for more time.

It roots itself in our hearts and souls—
deeper than DNA, bigger than ego, longer than lineage.
Something our bodies know before our minds catch up.

We belong to each other.
Together.
We are of each other.
Family.

A love that doesn’t expire.

God—our Father.
Not in theory. In truth.

He loved the world—all of us—
and sent His Son to defeat death.
For us.
All of us.

So, look at the children.
Feel that ache in your chest.
That tenderness, that joy, that fierce, irrational love.

That’s how God feels about us.
Each of us.
All of us.
Together.

And there is no verse that says,

“Once you turn eighteen, God stops loving you.”

Read that again:
There is no verse that says God stops loving you.
Ever.

Love in action.

Jesus said the greatest calling—after loving God—
is to love your neighbor as yourself.

But many of us were never taught how to love ourselves.
And that truth weighs heavy in the air right now.

We were taught how to survive.
How to hustle.
How to endure.
That love was something you earned.

But Jesus didn’t come to teach survival.
He came to offer life.
Abundant life.

The vibe he wants for you—
in a word: thriving.

He said the Kingdom of God is among us.
And love is how we step inside.

Love in the wake of loss.

I know when my bitter season began. Maybe you can relate?

In 2020, loving your neighbor looked like distance.
Six feet apart.
Face masks instead of family meals.
Missed birthdays. Silent holidays. Empty seats.

We lost a lot.
And it was out of love.
Safety.

And now, in 2025, I wonder if we’ve stopped refilling the cup—
if we’ve run out of love entirely?

But I refuse to be taken by that kind of despair.
Not when I know love is everlasting.

So if we have to shake out the
couch cushions to find a little—we will.

What does love look like now?

What does loving yourself—and loving your neighbors—look like in 2025? In America? On your street? In your family?

What are you willing to offer the people around you—and would you be willing to receive it yourself?

And as we celebrate perhaps we ask:

Would I eat from the plate I've served my neighbor this Easter?

We’ve been living off crumbs.
But we can choose to set the table again—
and this time, I hope we all sit down together.

Because Christ is risen.
Not just from the grave
but in you—
and in your neighbor.

This Eastertide, I offer you a blessing of love.

If Lent was a season of release,
then let Easter be the season of return.
Return to joy.
Return to mercy.
Return to love.

And as we move into the season of spring, life, and renewal I offer you this blessing:

May you return to love, as spring returns to waiting earth.
May you carry love with you over puddles and mud.
May love’s warmth find you like a garden waking to the sun.
And may love return to you with every bloom.

I’m sending this blessing to friends and family this season—
a small reminder that love always returns, grows, and reaches for light.

Even after long winters—
even through puddles and mud.

I invite you to share this blessing too: