Walking through the world, I get a sense that I am being wooed. There is a sweet, soft voice that carries in the air. When I crouch down or look up I cannot escape the thought that Someone is calling for me.

In winter, when all is crisp and crystals hang in pure sunlight, when gentle, minty greens mix with rich browns and reds and when glowing fires beckon, “Come near!” I am called—I am wooed.

In spring, when the sun stretches its arms and bulbs poke through the ground to greet it, when fragrance rolls across flower-tops and the earth puts on its coat of many colours, there is the voice I keep hearing—there is the face I keep seeing.

In summer, when trees bask on riverbanks, when the world slows down to remember that life can be a joyful thing, when ice bobs in fizzing glasses of tropical colour, I am overtaken by the delightful sound of Someone’s feet gently approaching.

In autumn, when gold and red are carelessly scattered into the air, when feet crunch the brown carpet below, when the earth seems rich and extravagant, I hear a royal decree—a divine invitation.

When a table is spread with fine fare—steaming dishes and plates piled high, when each rising layer offers a procession of delights, savoury and sweet, and conversation bounces from glass to glass, I pine for another table at which my Pursuer sits.

Holding a book in my hand and lifting a tea-filled cup to my lips, reading of magical lands and creatures mysterious and noble, my senses alive and my imagination dancing, I hear a far-off call to go further up and further in.

Painting a picture, dabbing colour and tone, playing with light and shade, smudging pastels and journeying the pen, creating portals to other worlds, I find myself in a greater artwork, a figure within. Who painted me in? Who gave me form? I sense the Sculptor’s hands near, the Artist’s brush aloft. I am drawn.

Sitting with a friend, walking and talking, dining and sharing, there is the sense that Someone else is there. Beyond the eyes, behind the smile, deep in the embrace, in the words that fall and lift, somehow a Greater Friend meets me there, welcomes me close with counsel to share.

Sitting with back against a wall, gazing upwards into the midnight blue, stars and planets singing their silvery songs to my soul, moon beaming like an old, encouraging friend and sky filled with expectancy, I am caught up in something bigger than myself—in a greater story about to unfold.

Brides float down the aisle, adorned and flourishing, enrapturing and turning. Grooms wait, drinking in, scarcely breathing. Day turns to night and two become one. There is One who waits for me, the Groom, the One true Lover. Along life’s road I feel loving arms around me, carrying me ever forward towards the home prepared, to the consummation of love. In the quiet His voice whispers, “You are my beloved, you are Mine.”

I hear the Voice—I sense the wooing most when I drink the cup of red and eat the broken bread. A stained tree from long ago cries down through the ages, “I love you!” In the wooing I turn, I follow and embrace. Washed white like snow I am united, I behold His face—I enter into the Divine love—the Divine Person. I am His and He is mine—forever one, forever embraced.

There she sat, hands folded in her lap, scarcely looking up. Couples swirled by, smiling, laughing, chatting and delighting. The music beckoned a response but there was no one to lead her to the dance. Little Mary was unadorned and to say she was plain was to do her a kindness. Her dress was old and faded and even in its prime it had been nothing to talk of. Her clumsily arranged hair was more like straw than silk. Her best efforts to improve herself were of little use. She was a ragdoll among china beauties, a sparrow among swans, and an ugly stepsister among glittering Cinderellas. How she even came to be at the ball no one knew—Mary herself was surprised. And yet there she was—sure that seated she would stay.

Time passed and Mary drooped further still. She became well acquainted with her well-worn shoes and the cracks in the floor. She sat and stared. After some time, Mary—lost in thought, became aware of a voice calling her name.

“Mary…Mary.”

Mary looked up into a most handsome face—smiling—with bright, dancing eyes. She looked in disbelief. It was the prince—the host of the ball! The prince was speaking to her—calling her name! Why he was speaking to her of all people and how he even knew her name, she couldn’t fathom. Nervously she managed a quick,

“Yes?”

“Mary, may I lead you to the dance?”

“Pardon?”

“Mary, it would give me great pleasure if you would come and dance with me.”

Mary caught her breath and hesitantly held out her hand. The prince led her to the floor. The room became silent as jaws dropped and polished peacocks watched on indignantly.

“Your Highness, I don’t know how to dance,” Mary whispered.

“Don’t worry, Mary”, soothed the prince, “I will lead you—just follow me and I’ll teach you as we go.”

The prince signalled for the music to begin. He spoke instructions softly to Mary and gently led her. Mary stumbled. She pulled in the wrong direction. She trod many times on the prince’s feet. The music kept playing and the couple kept dancing. Mary had barely looked into the prince’s eyes—afraid to look and fearful of seeing nothing but pity. But when she did look she saw something quite different—she saw love. Mary relaxed and allowed the prince to truly lead her. She found herself more light-footed and she moved with greater ease. The music itself captivated her and she was swept along by it. Though Mary had barely noticed, others looked on with wonder at how gracefully she moved across the floor. Yet, her movements were not the only thing catching eyes. Mary’s hair seemed smoother and softer. Her face was changed—aglow with a new beauty. And that old dress appeared fuller, brighter and richer. Soon Mary and the prince were the only ones dancing. All else looked on in amazement and wonder. They moved as one—carried along by the music. No longer was it the prince and plain little Mary. Now it was a lord and his lady—a king and his queen. Mary shimmered in an exquisite gown. Her hair shone like gold—adorned with a glistening tiara. Mary’s face was beauty itself—her eyes were as jewels and her lips like wine. Far from being “little Mary”, she stood tall and full of grace. The greatest change was the unceasing smile on her face and the rapturous delight that shone in her eyes. Mary was transformed in the arms of her lord and king.