The Real Meaning of Love.

It was happy hour again. The week had rolled by, dramatically. Nate sat at the bar, he was the wise old owl of his engineering firm. His juniors were pussy footing around him, trying not to be insensitive.

Nate's week had not kicked off so well, not great at all. On Sunday, his long time society wife had sat him down, for the 'talk'. She had fallen in love with a society doctor, the man of her dreams. Nate felt absolutely nothing, as she left the scene with her designer suitcases.

His wife no longer had anything to say, neither did he. Nate had to put the house on the market, and declutter his stuff so he could relocate. His future was suddenly an open book.

The very next day, his loving, but snippy, mother keeled over, and died of a massive cardiac condition. He had buried his mother, she never lived to enjoy the his first world luxuries where she had aimed him. Nate stood there, her golden-haired boy, the object of his mother's social ambitions. He was so 'respectable'.

Now it was happy hour with his workmates. Nate went and sat down in the lounge chair, sort of at that mellow stage. He stared uncaring at a match on a wide pub screen no one else was even viewing. It was there, part of the whole drinking culture.

Nate thought about his week in retrospect. When he was just a boy, he had shown great promise. His mother had scrimped and saved to have him sit for scholarships, and to send him to an elitist school. He had always driven himself. He attained great sporting firsts, captain of a football team, recruited in the big league, while overachieving in every exam.

At one stage, he had felt called to channel himself for his Lord he had learnt about in his religion classes. He felt he should study Theology, and lay healing hands on his fellow mankind, following humbly in the path of his simple Christian faith. He would have held his own.

Nate's mother was duly horrified by his teenage dreams. No son of hers was going to be poor as a church mouse. Poor was not good. Nate was persuaded to apply for a professional vocation where he could earn lots of money. His mother did not want him to echo his railway worker father. He was heading for the university, going to succeed, and then marry well.

Nate had a brain wave, as he sat there, while the drinkers' laughter and repartee swirled around him. No more reason for him to be a people pleaser. His two children were adults now, they had left home. Nate had provided them with a good family, the best schools, and a great background.

Both of his children had followed their own individual paths. Nate's son and daughter made sure they had been expelled, and were never going to university professors. His son was never quite ready for his father's football dreams, so he rejected that too. He had reached a certain age, and headed off interstate to be a station hand on a big cattle property. That was his path.

Nate's daughter had chased every unsuitable boy she could, now she was living in regional city, pregnant. She planned to keep her baby, and pursue some plan to be a fitness instructor.

Yes, the light switched on in Nate's brain, as the glasses clinked at the bar. He told the others he has heading off home early. He called a taxi and let himself into his empty mansion home on the "Golden Mile". It had never felt like home.

Nate fed his unwanted dog., the ugly Pippi Longstocking. He hoped his daughter would visit on Sunday and take her back to the country to live. Otherwise, it was euthanasia row for the canine.

Nate slept well that night. He had made his decision, he could now be his own individual. Saturday dawned. Nate phoned his firm's manager, and resigned. The real estate agent was booked for 9 am Monday. Not only for this golden achievement non-home, but also for his luxury beach house. That should sell well. It had its own lap pool next to the private beach. Going, going, gone.

Nate phoned a travel agent. He booked a flight overseas, to India, to study healing. He was planning to enjoy his fresh start, to contemplate his calling. But first, his decluttering. His wife had thoughtfully left him some boxes.

This was it. Nate went off to the local rubbish tip. At that time, it was still free. Wouldn't matter anyway. Nate was not a poor boy, which was an understatement. Nate stood there by his open car boot, and hurled the lot. Into the tip went his suits, his stuffed white shirts, all the glittering trophies and engineering awards of his stellar career. Following that, he threw away his degrees from illustrious universities around the globe.

Next went his old football sweaters, and his prizes, his autographed photos, his golden statues. Soon, this ceremony meant it was all gone. He could cheerfully have set a match to it all, burning memories.

Now Nate could be his own individual man. Soon enough, he flew overseas, and explored his real gifts, to lay on hands. Later, he did return to his hometown. He bought an inner city terrace house, and began his own business, offering healing massages, and counselling his clientele at the same time.

He joined an outreach van at night, spreading his message of support to homeless people in his neighborhood, down on their luck. He took them care packages, coffees, donuts, hot soups, a healing touch. He was never going to be a poor church mouse, he was an undercover healer for his Lord. He rated in the suburb, a kindly, unofficial preacher for them all. God did not give up on anyone.

Nate did not miss all that paraphernalia of his former glittering lifestyle at all. His mother would have been so underwhelmed, but even she could not take any stuff with her. Nate sent silent prayers to his parents above. On his outreach van he drove, a lady social worker came his way. Soon they were wed, their common goals to live as simple Christians, working for their great God. It had all worked out for the greater good. The real treasure had always been there, in his healing hands. Nate had found the real meaning of love.