Exploring the Depth of Agape Love

As I sit at my kitchen table, surrounded by the delightful chaos of my four children, I can’t help but acknowledge the weight of certain relationships that feel strained. There's a heaviness that comes with recognizing the ways I have fallen short of loving others with pure, selfless love—agape. It's painful to admit that I often prioritize my comfort over genuine acts of love. The old habits, the clinging to expectations, and the patterns of conditional love must die if I am to embody the fullness of Christ's love in my life. It’s in this honest admission that I confront a deeper truth: the call to love is not just an ideal but a commitment to transformation, a surrender to the work of grace in my heart.

What must die in our lives in order to embrace the fullness of agape love? It could be an old identity tied to our accomplishments, the false security found in comparing our lives to others, or even the destructive patterns of communication that lead to misunderstandings and hurt. For me, it means letting go of expectations placed upon my husband and children that stem from my own insecurities, and choosing instead to see them through a lens of unconditional love. As I reflect on these thoughts, I invite you to consider what in your life might need to die—a fear of vulnerability, a resistance to forgiveness, or perhaps a habit of judgment.

Then comes the dying:

The journey toward agape love is not a smooth path; it’s often marked by the pain of letting go. I remember a particularly challenging season in our family where my husband and I found ourselves in constant conflict. Each argument felt like a stripping away of my ego, revealing the parts of me that clung to approval and perfection. These were my Gethsemane moments—where I felt the weight of my pride pressing down. I struggled with the temptation to retreat into self-preservation, but I knew deep down that to love authentically meant surrendering my need to be right.

The descent into death feels isolating at times. There were nights I cried alone in the dark, grappling with my fears of inadequacy and the pain of my brokenness. It was in these moments that I had to confront my resistance. Letting go of old patterns of behavior—like raising my voice or withdrawing in silence—felt agonizingly difficult. But the Holy Spirit whispered reminders of the love I longed to reflect, the love that Christ demonstrated on the cross. It’s in this painful process that we often meet our truest selves, and I learned that vulnerability was the path to deeper connections.

As I navigated these struggles, I found solace in prayer and the lives of the saints who modeled this sacrificial love. I often turned to St. Therese of Lisieux, whose small acts of love taught me that even in the ordinary, we can find opportunities to offer agape love. With each small surrender, I began to see glimpses of the new life that was waiting on the other side of this difficult season.

In the darkness:

During this waiting period, I remember how my children would ask about the Easter vigil, the anticipation building in them like a gentle flame. They couldn’t yet see the joy that awaited them on Easter morning. I found myself musing on the disciples, who spent Holy Saturday in confusion and grief, unsure of what the future held. There is a heaviness in this waiting, yet also a glimmer of hope. It’s a time to reflect, to remember that the promise of resurrection is only a breath away.

For many of us, these wilderness seasons can feel never-ending. We might find ourselves in dark nights of the soul, grappling with doubts about our relationships, our vocations, or even our faith. Yet, it’s here that the seeds of hope are planted, even when it’s hard to see or recognize them. I took comfort in knowing that silence doesn’t mean abandonment. Just as Christ lay in the tomb, I invited God into the stillness, trusting that something new was brewing just beneath the surface.

But Sunday is coming:

And then, the unexpected morning arrives. I remember vividly the first Easter after that challenging season with my husband when we awoke to a bright and hopeful morning. The sun streamed through our kitchen window, illuminating the faces of my children as they dashed towards their Easter baskets. It was a surprise, a reminder of new life breaking through the darkness, much like the surprise the disciples felt upon discovering the empty