The Wooing

June 28, 2016

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.

 

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