My father knelt in the dust beside me, I was five years old and full of questions. I had been watching my father work, smoothing the rough grain of a wooden beam with slow, careful strokes. The smell of freshly cut wood filled the air.

“Abba,” I asked, my small hands playing with the shavings on the ground, “what is love?”

He looked at me, his eyes gentle. He set his tools down and pulled me onto his lap. “Love, my son, is like the hands of a carpenter,” he said softly. “It builds, it shapes, it smooths—but sometimes, it also cuts and carves. It is both gentle and strong.”

I frowned. “Love can hurt?”

“Abba nodded. “Yes, but not in the way you fear. Love is like the sun that warms you but can also burn away what is weak. It changes you, makes you better, even when it is hard. Just as I shape this wood, love shapes the heart.”

I touched the beam. “So love makes people strong?”

“Yes,” he said. “But love is not something you own. It is like the wind—you can feel it, but you cannot hold it in your hands. It moves where it wills, and you must let it be free. If you try to keep it only for yourself, like a bird in a cage, it will not sing as it should.”

I thought for a moment, my little brow furrowed. “So… if I love you, I can’t keep you all to myself?”

He smiled and ran a hand through my dark curls. “That is right. Love does not cling, but neither does it leave. It stands firm, ”

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“like these beams, supporting everything around it. You and I—we will always be bound by love, no matter where we are.”

I leaned against my father’s chest, thoughtful. “I think I like love, even if it is big and strong.”

He chuckled and kissed the top of my head. “Yes, my son. Love is big and strong. And one day, you will understand it even more. But for now, just know this—when you love truly, you are never alone.”

I closed my eyes, listening to the steady beat of my father’s heart, and in that moment, I understood love in the way a child can—by resting in it, safe and warm.”