As words go, the honorable “cherish” has roots sinking deep, clear back to the midst of Old English and the 1300s. It draws from the French cher and the Latin carus, which both mean “dear.” Its most closely-tied synonyms have and hold echo back traditional wedding vows in my mind, but similarly-themed verbs of bear and nurse bring up equally-fast images of mothers with children.

To cherish is to hold close, to think of constantly, to be deeply connected to from fiber to fiber and heart to heart. It is also to be thankful for, to treasure, and to dream of — while we can.

That is the limit of cherishing. We do it only while we draw breath.

And yet, while we draw breath, we will cherish with all our might. Such cherishing is not dependent upon the physical presence of the one we cherish.

Indeed, while a man holds his beloved bride close, he cherishes her softness. And after she has left his side for Heaven, he cherishes her sweet, graceful memory.

Likewise, the parents cherishing their newborn or toddler do so no more than the parents who, aching-hearted, have to mourn the child physically lost to them in infancy, via stillbirth, or in utero.

For just as this word is deeply rooted, so too are our love for and need for and dreams for others deeply rooted. Often far more deeply rooted than we could see until they are uprooted and torn away.

Thus, it is a painful thing to cherish for all who will really dare to do it, should they be the ones left standing when the storms pass by.

And yet, what would life be without love, and what would love be without risk?

They would not be.

Therefore, I will choose to cherish Jesus most of all and ask Him to help me live and love — to cherish — while I may. And trust that He will help me bear the pain when the uprooting in or around me shreds my heart.