There is a question I have beenreturning to for some time: what does it mean to truly love another person? Itseems simple. Yet the more I observe my own heart and the world around me, themore I wonder if we have forgotten the answer. We speak often about love—wewrite songs about it, search for it, long to receive it—but we rarely stop toask what it actually looks like when it becomes ordinary. Perhaps one of itsdeepest signs is not sacrifice, not service, not even generosity. Perhaps it isdelight.

Think of a parent watching asleeping child. The child is not achieving anything, not performing, notproving their worth. They are simply asleep. Yet the parent watches with quietjoy—nothing to gain, nothing to accomplish, nothing to fix, only the simplehappiness that this child exists. That is delight. And perhaps it is one of thepurest forms of love we ever experience.

We live in a culture thatteaches us to measure almost everything—productivity, influence, achievement,performance. Without realizing it, we begin measuring people the same way: Whatcan they contribute? How useful are they? Do they make my life easier? Thesequestions are rarely spoken aloud, but they quietly shape how we see oneanother. Relationships become transactions. Friendships become networking.Marriage becomes negotiation. Children become projects. Even we begin to seeourselves through the same lens—successful enough, useful enough, interestingenough, enough? It is exhausting, because the human heart was never meant tolive as a résumé.

The Christian story beginssomewhere entirely different. It begins with delight. Again and again in theopening chapter of Genesis, God creates—light, sea, trees, birds, animals,human beings—and after each act, Scripture repeats a simple phrase: “God sawthat it was good.” The world begins not with usefulness but with goodness.Creation is not merely functional. It is beloved. Before humanity built cities,discovered medicine, composed music, or cultivated fields, God delighted inwhat He had made. That changes how we understand ourselves. Our worth does notbegin with what we accomplish. It begins with being loved into existence.

This pattern continuesthroughout Scripture. At His baptism in the Jordan, before He has preached asermon, healed the sick, or called a single disciple, the Father’s voice isheard: “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.” Belovedness comesbefore accomplishment. Delight comes before mission.

The saints never tired ofreturning to this mystery. Saint Thérèse of Lisieux understood that God was notwaiting for extraordinary achievements before He loved her; she responded notby trying to become remarkable, but by entrusting herself completely to Hislove and offering Him the smallest acts with great affection. Saint Francis deSales reminded ordinary Christians that holiness belongs in kitchens,workshops, marriages, and marketplaces as much as monasteries. Centuries later,Saint Josemaría Escrivá echoed the same truth: “There is something holy,something divine, hidden in the most ordinary situations.” Different centuries,different vocations, the same discovery: God delights in meeting us in ordinarylife.

‍

‍

Perhaps that is why holinessoften appears so quiet. It looks like a mother kneeling beside her child’s bedone more time before sleep. A husband listening patiently after a long day. Adaughter visiting her aging parents. A nurse sitting beside someone who isfrightened. A teacher refusing to give up on a struggling student. A friend whokeeps showing up. These moments rarely make history books. Yet they shapehistory all the same, because they shape hearts.

One of the great tragedies ofour age is not simply that we have become busy. It is that we have becomedistracted from one another. We see people, but we often fail to behold them.We notice what they produce before we notice who they are. We admire talentmore easily than faithfulness, and celebrate visibility more readily than quietlove. Slowly, without intending to, we lose the capacity for delight.

The opposite of using anotherperson is not merely serving them. It is receiving them—as a gift, not aproject, not a problem to solve, not a means to an end, but simply a personwhose existence is good. This is what parents know when they gaze at a newborn.This is what true friendship discovers over years. This is what faithfulmarriages slowly become. And perhaps this is how God has always loved us.

I sometimes wonder whethermuch of our loneliness comes from this—not simply that we are unseen, but thatwe long to be delighted in. To know that someone is genuinely glad that weexist, not because we are impressive or useful, but simply because we are.Isn’t this what every child longs for? What every marriage quietly seeks, whatevery friendship hopes to become? And isn’t this, finally, what the Gospelreveals—a God who does not merely forgive us, or tolerate us, or make use ofus, but who rejoices over His people with singing?

Perhaps the forgotten art ofdelight begins very simply: by slowing down enough to notice. To notice theperson sitting across the table. To notice the beauty of creation. To noticethe ordinary gifts hidden inside an ordinary Tuesday. To notice that everyperson we meet bears the image of God. Delight is not naïve. It does not ignoresuffering. It simply refuses to let suffering have the final word.

The saints discovered thatholiness is not reserved for remarkable people doing remarkable things. Moreoften, it is found in ordinary people living ordinary lives with extraordinarylove. Perhaps that is why they seemed so free. They had stopped asking whetherlife was impressive enough, and begun asking whether it was loving enough.

Maybe the measure of awell-lived life is not how much we accomplish, but how deeply we learn todelight—in God, in one another, in the ordinary gifts of creation. Because inthe end, love does not begin by asking, “What can I get from you?” Nor even, “Whatcan I do for you?” Love begins with something much quieter. It looks uponanother person and says, “I am grateful that you are.” And perhaps that is howGod has looked upon us from the very beginning.