Across the room sat Otto, a man I wished loved me. We were friends. I had emailed funny messages as he traversed a difficult time. I kept the notes platonic. This day he announced his engagement to another woman. I knew of his interest in her. My reaction surprised me. I would have expected myself to feel jealous or depressed. I was sad for myself, and for what would never be. But, inside me, a contented warmth grew. I wanted so much for him to have peace and happiness. My sense of loss was not important.
Years later, during a meditation, I recalled that day. Both the happiness and loss flowed through time, back to 33 AD. The location was a Roman crucifixion. I was not in the crowd staring up. I floated behind the left arm of the center cross, Jesus’s cross. His eyes gazed on the people below Him. His pain seemed secondary. His focus was projecting love, peace, and happiness on those watching Him. If His pain meant these people could find love, well, that was all that was necessary. Tears swam in my eyes.
In a much lesser degree my love and loss of Otto evoked similar feelings in me. For the first time I had an inkling of the meaning of Christ’s death. “Jesus died for love of us. Jesus died to make up for our sins.” The factual words of dogma and theology buried the impact of love. I’d always heard that the nails were my fault. I was the cause of the pain. I 
never saw the willingness of love to accept pain so another could have a chance at happiness. This was personal. This was a God I connected with.