Dear Humanity,
It is once again the feast of St. Valentine, that gentle day when love seems to float in the air like breath itself: unseen, yet life-giving. And so I write, not to one person, but to all.
My first love remains my faithful Creator, the One whose thought I am, whose breath I carry, whose mercy sustains me. Before I knew language, I was already loved. Before I chose, I was chosen. Every beat of my heart is a quiet hymn of gratitude.
Then came my family, the first classroom of tenderness. In their arms I learned trust. In their correction, I learned strength. In their laughter, I discovered joy. They taught me that love is not only spoken; it is cooked, cleaned, sacrificed, waited for, forgiven.
I remember my school days: my mates, my teachers, the long hours of study, the triumphs and the tears. They taught me that love can also be intellectual. To love truth. To love learning. To love questions. To love the discipline that shapes destiny. Education was not merely a pursuit; it was an awakening.
To you, dear Catholic faithful, with you I belong to a family that precedes my memory and will outlive my years. An institution into which I was born by grace: no entrance exam, no semester test, no expulsion notice. In her sacraments I found strength; in her liturgy, rhythm; in her doctrine, clarity; in her community, companionship. I love you.
But my letter stretches further.
To the farmer who tills the soil before dawn;
To the trader who balances profit with patience;
To the nurse who keeps vigil while others sleep;
To the journalist who risks comfort for truth;
To the driver navigating rough roads;
To the artisan shaping beauty from wood and iron;
To the student burning midnight oil;
To the child learning to spell;
To the elderly who carry libraries of memory in fragile bodies;
To the stranger whose name I may never know
I love you.
To those who agree with me and those who challenge me, you refine my thinking. To those who have hurt me, you deepened my understanding of forgiveness. To those I have hurt, knowingly or unknowingly, you teach me humility. Love is not always soft; sometimes it is stern, sometimes it is silent, sometimes it is simply patient.
I love the sound of human laughter, the dignity of honest labour, the quiet heroism of single parents, the courage of widows and widowers, the resilience of nations that rise after storms. I love the small gestures: a held door, a shared meal, a text message that says, “Are you safe?” I love the minute details of our shared humanity—the wrinkles that speak of time, the calloused hands that speak of work, the tears that speak of depth.
Humanity, you are fragile and magnificent at once. You build cathedrals and bridges, poems and policies. You fail and rise again. You wound and you heal. In your diversity, you reveal the infinite creativity of God.
On this day of love, I choose not a narrow affection, but a generous one. Not a fleeting passion, but a deliberate commitment. To love in speech and in silence. In action and in restraint. In presence and in prayer.
May we learn to love not only when it is easy, but when it is costly. Not only when it flatters us, but when it transforms us. Not only in celebration, but in daily duty.
Dear Humanity,
You are worth loving—fully, faithfully, and fearlessly.
With hope,
A Fellow Pilgrim
Fr. Okhueleigbe Osemhantie Ãmos
Comments are closed.