Red Sundays

I was newly divorced the first time I heard Taylor Swift sing her soulful songs validating my wounded heart.

Loving him is like driving a new Maserati down a dead end street
Faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly

Her sweet inocence was haunting to me then but I ignored it because we shared something in common. Heartache. Her lyrics evolved, like my wounds, and even carried into my new relationships. I found myself languishing in her melodies for a good portion of my recovery. It soothed the ache and gave validation to my hate. Justification to my immaturity.

Losing him was blue, like I’d never known
Missing him was dark gray, all alone
Forgetting him was like trying to know
Somebody you never met
But loving him was red
Loving him was red

Reason was overcome by passion. The ruling force for women scorned. Virtue was never at the heart of her siren songs. The innocence I poorly discerned was more like ignorance. Worse than the heartache was the lies, and I willfully believed them. The only misogyny committed against me was my own.

Touching him was like realizing all you ever wanted
Was right there in front of you
Memorizing him was as easy as knowing all the words
To your old favorite song
Fighting with him was like trying to solve a crossword
And realizing there’s no right answer
Regretting him was like wishing you never found out
That love could be that strong

The problem with ignorance is it breeds contempt for what it doesn’t know.

Why I entrusted my heartache to the lyrical healing of another, only God knows. It’s easy to blame the opposite sex but the truth still remains the truth. The only thing red about my divorce was my willingness to ignore the Truth. Dear Taylor, Love like that is never strong.

What I wish I could go back and say to my younger self, and to all the Taylors of this generation, is that real love is much stronger.

My ex was a football finatic. I delved into Sundays with him believing they bonded our souls. I hosted parties, learned the game, and cheered along with the best of fans. I watched and learned until it was almost impossible to know who loved the game more. Everything was red.

That is until the Sundays stopped. And, I began to realize what I thought was passion was only passion for sin. The inordinate effort we put into bonding over football was really a vain attempt at avoiding the truth. We made gods out of everything but the One who deserved it.

Loving him is like trying to change your mind
Once you’re already flying through the free fall
Like the colors in autumn, so bright, just before they lose it all

And that’s what we were in danger of, losing it all. Dear Taylor, I know you didn’t know it then but there’s another Sunday I wish you would sing about, and it really IS red.

Ladies, there’s nothing misogynistic about the Truth.

A man who loves you lets you know it. There’s nothing to make you feel all alone.

Watching him live the truth is like realizing all you ever wanted.

You needn’t be afraid to confront him because he does have all the answers.

His passion for you is everything short of sin.

Sadly, much of the contempt against today’s women is self-inflicted. We keep believing the lies inflicted by our own. And we’re not alone.

The battle is two-sided. Even men on the same team can be opposed. One battles for you not to see his true colors, the other wants to see you make it Home. Two Different Sundays, how’s that for a song? Both wearing red.

In my youthfulness, I might have thought the solution to all the worlds problems was written there in a song by Taylor Swift. But I see things differently now.

Remembering him comes in flashbacks and echoes
Tell myself it’s time now gotta let go

And I do. I found that it IS possible.

Dear Taylor, I’ve learned to see more than red and I’m hoping one day you will too. And the whole world can quote you on it.

Ladies, let’s be courageous enough to let go of our youthfull ignorance. And just maybe the youth of today will find it possible to be surrounded by truth and not lullabied by our lies. For the sake of my own two sons, I’m praying the Truth will set us all free. And, that they’ll be real Sunday men, unafraid. That’s a team I can root for. And one I hope my daughters will too.

Real love grows. And so must we.