Love is the Compass

Sometimes life requires us to reorient.

Sometimes it’s because of grief. Sometimes it’s retirement, illness, a change in relationships, or a new understanding of ourselves. Sometimes the familiar landmarks disappear, and we find ourselves looking at a landscape we never expected to enter.

And we wonder: Where do I go from here?

I’ve been thinking about that question a great deal lately.

In a recent conversation with a friend about theology and relationships, three sentences emerged:

Love is where theology begins.

Relationship is where theology is lived.

Love is the compass by which theology finds its way.

My friend responded with one word: “Perfect!”

But the next morning, I began wondering whether that third sentence might reach beyond theology.

What if love is simply the compass?

A compass doesn’t tell us everything about the journey ahead. It doesn’t remove uncertainty or reveal what lies around the next bend. It doesn’t even tell us where we must end up.

It gives us a direction from wherever we happen to be.

And perhaps love does that.

When we’re frightened, love can point us toward kindness. When we’re confused, toward understanding. When we’re lonely, toward connection. When we’re grieving, toward hope.

When we face difficult decisions, love helps us ask what is life-giving, what honors the dignity of others, and what leads toward greater compassion and understanding.

And here’s something especially important about a compass: It works wherever the traveler happens to be.

We don’t all have to be experiencing the same changes for love to help us find our bearings.

For someone questioning long-held beliefs, love may provide a foundation for reconsidering theology.

For someone discovering new dimensions of themselves, love may offer the courage to embrace what is emerging.

For someone navigating changing relationships, love may help distinguish what needs to change from what remains worth carrying forward.

And for someone grieving the death of a beloved companion, love may point toward a continuing relationship, even when physical presence is no longer possible.

That last possibility has become particularly meaningful to me since Cheryl’s death.

I’ve been discovering that continuing to love Cheryl doesn’t require pretending that nothing has changed. Everything has changed. But the love hasn’t disappeared.

Our shared history, our memories, the places we loved, and the ways we shaped one another remain part of my life.

I’m not trying to return to the life we had. I’m learning how to continue into the life that is unfolding.

And love is helping me find my bearings.

Recently, I’ve also been exploring a word: transphysical—across and beyond the physical.

It raises a fascinating question about relationships. Are the physical ways we experience one another the entirety of a relationship, or can relationship extend beyond physical presence?

We already know something about loving people who aren’t physically with us. We remember them, think about them, carry their influence, and continue to be shaped by our relationships with them.

But could there be something more?

Could love itself be a compass pointing toward a continuation of relationship beyond physical death?

I don’t know exactly what that would mean. I don’t know how to describe the reality of someone who has laid aside the body through which I knew and loved her.

But I find myself wondering.

And then I remember John 3:16–17.

The movement begins with God’s love for the world and leads toward the promise of eternal life. The purpose is not condemnation, but salvation.

Love is not merely the direction in which we are invited to move. Love is also the movement of God toward us.

And that opens another possibility.

What if love is not only the compass that helps us navigate this life, but also the compass by which we orient ourselves toward eternal life?

I don’t offer that as a conclusion I’ve reached. I offer it as a question worth exploring.

Perhaps that’s what these blog seeds are really about. Not arriving at final answers, but discovering questions that help us see familiar things in new ways.

And sometimes the questions arise in the most ordinary circumstances.

This morning, while carrying fresh water out to the cats, I realized I needed to reorient some of them toward living outdoors rather than indoors.

Not because I loved them less. I was, after all, carrying water out to take care of them.

I was simply trying to help them adjust to a different arrangement.

And I found myself laughing.

There I was, reorienting the cats with love!

Perhaps there’s a small lesson in that, too.

Reorientation isn’t rejection.

Changing the way we live doesn’t necessarily mean abandoning what came before. Sometimes it means discovering new ways to express the love that has been there all along.

The landscape may change. The journey may surprise us. We may find ourselves traveling roads we never expected to take.

But wherever we find ourselves, perhaps we can begin with one question:

What would love have me do?

Not because love makes every decision easy.

Not because love eliminates uncertainty.

But because love reminds us what matters most.

When you don’t know which way to turn, begin with love.

Love is the compass.

“Love is the Compass” image and article co-created by Bill & Sol with ChatGPT, 2026. 

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