It took one of the nastiest things I’ve ever experienced to understand Valentine’s Day.

What makes this Valentine’s Day so different?

One of the legends surrounding the third-century Saint Valentine is that he was martyred for blessing the weddings for Roman soldiers who were Christians. [Of course, these stories usually fail to mention that all Roman soldiers below the rank of Centurion were forbidden to marry while actively serving.]

But religious intolerance and persecution are not what led to the holiday we now call Valentine’s Day. Nor, to be honest, is an annual impulse for our significant others to spontaneously gift us with flowers, chocolate, and sexual favors. Instead, the part of the legend we celebrate is that love is always worth it. (Although the 70% off on the flowers and chocolate the next day can run a close second…)

Take last week. I’d just returned to my home on the Scottish island of Arran. As always, driving from the ferry to our little village meant leaving the ugly realities of the real world behind. I marveled how lucky I was to live in the beautiful slice of paradise I call home.

There was a large package waiting in my hallway. This wasn’t a surprise, because we usually left our doors unlocked so the letter carriers and my neighbors could put things inside. But as I opened the box, I couldn’t make sense of what I found.

The package contained a number of nasty items and a two page letter in block capitals telling us that because of our religion, we were not welcome, and we needed to leave the island immediately.

This sounds like the bad part, and of course I did spend some minutes spiralling into thoughts of the millions lost to the holocaust and murders in the name of a religion. But instead I called our local police, and explained the situation to an appalled young constable. She bundled away the “evidence” and said it would be sent for DNA and fingerprint analysis.

“But that box isn’t Arran,” she said. “We don’t do this.”

This isn’t us.

And that’s where the love comes in. Almost immediately, and over the next few days, everyone on our little island who heard about this wanted me to know their shock and disgust. I had phone calls, emails, and social media messages. I was hugged in shops and restaurants. People I haven’t heard from in ages, and people I just met all wanted me to know the same thing. “This isn’t us.”

The love and concern built from a trickle to a wave.

Sure, I now lock my doors. I installed security cameras. The price demanded by the anonymous coward who left that package was my innocent faith in my island home. That bubble is pricked forever. But in its place is the best Valentine I’ve ever received: the support, concern, and yes, the love of an island full of neighbors.

St. Valentine would be proud.

I know I am.