Friday, December 19, 2008
Love Letters to the King
Do you remember, my Lord?
The first time I came to you?
Standing in a walkway, sweat dripping from my brow as I swept the front stoop of my master’s store, your messenger found me.
No words spoken. He leaned from his saddle, a gold sealed note in his hand. I took it, and he disappeared into the dust cloud from the horse-trodden cobblestone road.
Alone, in the midst of the crowded village market, I stood.
A poor peasant girl, in thread-bare clothes, holding a note from the King.
I broke the seal and read the letter.
Come to me.
Three simple words. My brow creased. My heart skipped a beat. Why me, my Lord? With tears streaming down my cheeks, my condition resonated within me, tormenting my soul. Dirty, used, broken, I cannot go to the king.
But your note. Come to me.
My heart moved beyond my torment. I must go to the King.
The broom fell from my hand. I clutched the note to my bosom and ran. Each step carried me farther away from the village and closer to your garden. My heart beat explosively in my chest until each breath was harder to grasp than the last. I pushed on until I reached the gate. Holding fast to the iron bars, I lay my head on the cold metal and wept for the unworthiness of my soul.
The setting sun threw roses to the earth that illuminated the lake in a ghostly glow. As I looked towards the water, I found you standing beneath the willow tree; its branches bowing in your presence.
The gate was not locked. I passed through the entrance and tread reticently down the path. The closer I came to you, the more I was enveloped by the peace that emanated from your stature. I cared less and less about my appearance. I only wanted you.
At the end of the path I stopped. The great lake spread before me, smoldering in the setting sun. You did not acknowledge my presence. You stood staring at the water. Your shoulders broad with strength, your head held high in majesty and your heart…I could hear calling to me.
I was eager. I was also scared.
Your note in my hand, I walked to your side and bowed my head.
Expecting to hear your voice, I felt your hand instead. You lifted my chin with your fingers until my eyes met yours. You looked into my soul as if you were studying a great masterpiece.
Wiping the tears from my cheeks, you spoke, “Peasant girl no more. From now on you are my Princess.”
I remember my Lord. And, I will never forget.
Your enraptured servant
“No longer will they call you Deserted, or name your land Desolate. But you will be called Hephzibah, and your land Beulah, for the Lord will take delight in you…” Is 62:4 (NIV)
May you run to the one who beckons you that he may delight in your presence.