Love is Not All—But It Better Be Something

When Words Feel Small in the Face of Tragedy

By LONNIE KING

When disaster strikes—like the recent floods in Kerr County, Texas, that claimed lives and destroyed families—we instinctively reach for phrases that feel familiar:

• “Thoughts and prayers.”
• “Sending love.”
• “My heart breaks for you.”

We say these things because they’re what we’ve been conditioned to say. They’re safe. They’re gentle. But in the shadow of real loss, they also feel empty, like tossing paper boats into floodwaters.

They can be seen, but they can’t carry anyone to safety.

I Didn’t Go Looking for Poetry, But…

I’m not really a poetry guy, outside of Casey at the Bat—

“The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day

The score stood two to four, with but one inning left to play.”

—poetry has never been my go-to for reflecting on life or loss. Unless it’s the bottom of the ninth and you need a clutch hit to walk it off…

But I stumbled onto a reference to a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, of all places, in a TikTok video. It was her sonnet, Love is Not All. I looked it up, and one particular line stuck with me:

“Love is not meat nor drink / Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain.”

As I interpret it, Millay was basically saying that love can’t feed you, can’t house you, can’t keep you alive when the rain comes down. And standing in the aftermath of the Kerr County floods, with families mourning the dead, those words felt pretty on-the-nose.

No amount of love could hold back that water. No gesture of compassion can reverse death. And so the phrase “Love is not all” starts to feel less like poetry and more like a cold, hard fact.

When “Love” is Just a Performance

Here’s the thing, though:  we live in a culture where that kind of love—the poetic, abstract, symbolic version—is all people feel obligated to offer.

We toss out “thoughts and prayers” like they’re currency, as if sentiment alone buys us the right to say we’ve loved well. As if performing love publicly is the same as loving practically.

And nowhere is that clearer than in the statements we see from state and national politicians. They’ll tweet a hashtag. They’ll post a somber message of support. They’ll send their prayers.

But when it comes to actually governing in ways that prioritize public safety, infrastructure, or relief for working-class families who bear the brunt of these disasters, their policies tell a different story. Their legislative records reveal that they don’t love the people—they love the performance of compassion.

That’s not love.  That’s self-preservation disguised as empathy.

And “thoughts and prayers” without policy change? That’s the emotional equivalent of offering a handwritten sympathy card to a drowning person instead of a life jacket.

The Hypocrisy is in the Policy

We don’t have to look hard to see the gap between political gestures and actual governance in Texas:

• After every disaster—from Hurricane Harvey in 2017 to the 2021 Texas winter storm, and now the Kerr County floods—state leaders like Governor Greg Abbott are quick to post condolences.
• But Texas has repeatedly rejected or minimized federal funds intended for flood mitigation and climate resilience, often neglecting lower-income and non-white communities most at risk.

Meanwhile, politicians like Senators Ted Cruz and John Cornyn express concern for Texans after a tragedy but have voted against federal disaster relief for other states, such as the aid package for Hurricane Sandy victims in New York and New Jersey.

It reveals a selective compassion: one that shows up when the cameras are rolling, but disappears when the vote is on the floor.

That’s not leadership. That’s branding.

Real Love Moves. Real Love Does.

Real love doesn’t stay in the realm of “I’m thinking about you.” It crosses the gap between compassion and action.

Real love shows up:

• With food, shelter, donations, or manpower.
• With advocacy for better infrastructure and emergency preparedness.
• With accountability for leaders who treat disaster relief as an afterthought.

Real love creates inconvenience.  It costs us time, money, and comfort.  But it does something.

Love Isn’t All—But Without It, We Do Nothing

So yes, Millay was right. Love is not all. It won’t rebuild a home or resurrect the dead. It won’t stop the floods or mend a fractured bone.

But love—when it’s real—motivates us to help someone else breathe a little easier. And in that way, love becomes the spark that fuels everything else.  And, as Millay states in the final lines of her work, that might be why we choose love anyway:

It well may be that in a difficult hour,

Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,

Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,

I might be driven to sell your love for peace,

Or trade the memory of this night for food.

It well may be. I do not think I would.

But if it doesn’t, our loving “thoughts and prayers” are as hollow as the feeling in Mudville when mighty Casey struck out:

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

We can’t afford to keep striking out with hollow gestures. Not when real lives are on the line.

Grace and grit to you! — LK