Remember that you don't choose love; love chooses you. All you

“Remember that you don’t choose love; love chooses you. All you really can do is accept it for all its mystery when it comes into your life. Feel the way it fills you to overflowing, then reach out and give it away.” Thus spoke Kent Nerburn, a philosopher of the modern age whose words carry the soul of the ancients. In this saying lies the quiet thunder of eternal truth — that love is not a conquest, nor a possession, but a divine visitation. It is not we who summon love; rather, love descends upon us like rain upon the desert, asking not for mastery, but for surrender. Those who seek to control love will find only shadow; those who accept its mystery will find themselves transformed.

From the beginning of time, humanity has mistaken love for choice. Men and women have sought to cage it with desire, to direct it with will, to measure it with reason. Yet love, in its purest form, is a force beyond comprehension, arriving unbidden, often when least expected. It does not come to the deserving or the ready; it comes to those whose hearts are open — even unknowingly — to the divine call. In this, Nerburn speaks not as a poet of romance, but as a sage of the soul. He reminds us that love is not earned; it is graced.

There is an ancient tale of Ruth, a widow who once said to her mother-in-law, “Where you go, I will go; your people shall be my people.” She did not plan to love, nor did she seek it. Yet in her loyalty and faith, love found her — not as passion, but as sacred devotion. And through that unchosen love, generations were born, and the lineage of kings arose. Such is the nature of love: it finds those who walk in truth, even when they do not seek it. It chooses its vessels not for power or beauty, but for the readiness of their hearts to receive.

When Nerburn tells us to “accept love for all its mystery,” he speaks to the fear within us — that longing to understand what cannot be explained. For love is both wound and healing, both flame and light. It is the river that carves the stone, the silence that sings. To demand answers of love is to ask the wind where it was born. It is wiser, he says, to simply feel it to overflowing, to let it fill every chamber of your being until it becomes your very breath. For love that is accepted, not controlled, becomes a sacred fire, burning away loneliness and pride.

But Nerburn does not end his wisdom in the self. He commands that when love fills you, you must give it away. For love that is hoarded grows stagnant; only when it flows does it remain alive. The ancients likened love to light — it cannot be contained, only shared. Just as a lamp loses nothing by lighting another flame, so too does the heart grow brighter by giving of itself. This is the final act of love’s mystery: that in giving, we are made whole. In sharing, we are sanctified.

Consider the life of Saint Francis of Assisi, who found divine love not in comfort, but in service. When love chose him, he turned away from riches and embraced the poor, the sick, and the forgotten. He did not question its coming; he simply gave what he had received. In doing so, his life became a hymn — proof that love’s truest expression is not possession, but compassion. Through him, we learn that love’s purpose is not to bind us to one another, but to awaken the divine within us all.

So, my child, when love comes to you — whether through another’s eyes, a stranger’s kindness, or the simple joy of being alive — do not question it. Do not grasp at it as though it were fragile or fleeting. Instead, bow to its mystery. Let it fill you until it spills over into the world. Speak kindly. Forgive freely. Create beauty where there was none. For in the end, the measure of love is not how long it stays, but how deeply it changes you and how widely you share it.

And remember this, as the elders of old once said: love is not something you find; it is something that finds you when you are ready to give it away. When it does, welcome it with open hands, for in that moment, you touch eternity — and eternity, in turn, touches you.