Pineapples

Pineapples are my love language.

At least that’s the phrase I use when I tell people I really enjoy something.  “Pineapples are my love language.”  “Marshmallows are my love language.”  “Yarn is my love language.”

When I am gifted an item I’ve referred to like this, it makes me very happy.  Not because of the gifts themselves, but because I know that the giver knows me.  Being known is what makes me feel loved.  It doesn’t matter how expensive, cheap or rare the item is, the simple fact that it is something random I enjoy makes all the difference.

I once showed up at a guy’s apartment for a date to find pineapple on the table and broccoli roasting in the oven.  The dude ended up a dud, but he made me realize how important actions that made me feel known were to me.

Today I cut up a pineapple, and as I bit into the tough core I let the scent wash over me.  In that moment, I felt happy and loved.  I do believe, as silly as it sounds, that when God created pineapples he knew the joy they would bring me.  That’s just the sort of God I know.  One who knew the importance of each random detail in this world He created.

In other words, I love pineapples.

The end.

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