On the Feast of St. Valentine, priest and martyr, I wrote but did not share:
It’s Valentine’s Day—our chocolate-covered, cherry-filled, and rose-scented celebration of what passes for romance in a wonderless age. Named for a priest who was imprisoned and beheaded for secretly marrying second-century Christians, today Valentine’s Day has renounced its sainthood, elevating desire and satisfaction over its patron’s self-denial and sacrifice. Perhaps it is not surprising—we’ve watched the rise of the vampire romance in recent years, and February is a vampirous month, bloodless, pitiless, cold, and pale; short-lived and yet interminable. Ironic that it should be “the month of love,” since no one loves February except by accident, birth, or misunderstanding.
And then a day breaks like this: