Welcome to Love Letters to the King. If your new to the letters, you can click here to find out what it's all about.
This week's letter is a revisitation of an older letter. It's been revised and lengthened and I like the result. I'd love to hear what you think. Hope you enjoy.
Love Letters to the King
Do you remember, my Lord?
The first time I entered the garden?
I remember….
The first time I entered the garden?
I remember….
Standing in a doorway, sweat dripping from my brow as I swept the front step of my master’s store, your messenger found me.
No words spoken. He leaned from his saddle with a gold-sealed note in his hand. Accepting it, he turned and disappeared into the dust cloud emanating from the horse-trodden cobblestone road.
Alone, in the midst of the crowded village market I stood, a peasant girl in thread-bare clothes holding a note from the King. I slid my finger beneath the pressed wax and broke the seal, revealing the message inside.
Come to me.
Three simple words, and yet life altering. The paper was lead in my hand, and my fingers trembled under the weight of it. My heart skipped a beat, and my brow furled until my forehead hurt.
Why me, my Lord?
With tears free-falling down the hollows of my cheeks, I fell prey to the attack from the enemy within. Feasting on my insecurities the voice whispered its poison into my ear. You’re dirty, used, broken. You cannot go to the King.
But, your note. Come to me. The words jumped off the parchment and grabbing my heart, pulled it from the ebbing tide of my destitution. Hope demanded I obey. I must go to the King.
I released the broom letting it thump on the wooden steps outside my master’s store. Clutching your note to my bosom, I ran. Away from my servitude, away from my village, away from all that was familiar, I ran hard and fast. The chill of the evening’s air burned my lungs, and my breathing grew shallow, but I refused to stop until I reached the wrought iron gate that stands as a sentinel at the entrance to the garden.
And, I didn’t. Not until I crashed into the fence, letting the metal bars absorb my momentum. Catching my breath, I lay my head on the cold metal bars and wept.
I wept for the unworthiness of my soul, and for my undesirable condition that I would dare enter into the presence of the King. I flirted with the idea of turning around and heading back to the village, but a ghostly wind blew past me nudging the gate open.
I stepped inside. It was quiet. The leaves of the trees did not rustle in the wind and the cicadas did not serenade the setting sun. The weight of the garden’s silent worship was heavy making it difficult to press forward.
Broken bedrock lay scattered on the ground in a weaving path that led from the fence to a stand of ancient oaks. Passing beneath the trees’ canopy, the path fed into a courtyard of roses. Pausing, I picked a velvety pink rose, pinned it behind my ear and drew in its delicate perfume. Intoxicated, my insecurities subsided.
At the end of the courtyard, the path disappeared into Dalzure Lake. A Willow tree of unnatural proportion stood at the water’s edge. It was there that I found you.
Beneath the draping branches of the Willow, you stood staring at the last of day’s light dancing on the ripples in the water. Peace exuded from you as if it were ripe fruit hanging from a tree. The temptation of partaking from the sweet harvest drew me closer towards you.
I reticently tread the remaining length of the path until I was standing behind the Willow. You did not acknowledge my presence, nor did you remove your gaze from the lake. Staring at your back, I could not help but drink in your form. Shoulders broad with strength, arms that promised a secure embrace and ebony locks of hair that would please the eyes of many a maiden, but it was not that which caught my eye. It was your stature. Your appearance was young, yet your presence held the authority of the ancients. And though your glory seemed to emanate from the pores of your skin so that even the garden worshipped you, there was still a cloak of humility wrapped around you that fostered approachability. Here, standing behind you, my heart was pierced by the realization of how much I wanted and needed you.
I was terrified. I was also excited.
Your note still in my hand, I walked to your side. I bowed my head in respect for you and in shame of me.
Expecting to hear your voice, I felt your hand instead. You lifted my chin with your fingers, and raised my head until my eyes met yours. Meeting your gaze, I could feel you penetrate my soul.
Taking my face in both of your hands, you wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Peasant girl no more,” you said, “from now on, you are my Princess.”
I remember that first day in the garden, my Lord. And, I will never forget.
Love,
Princess
“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)
No words spoken. He leaned from his saddle with a gold-sealed note in his hand. Accepting it, he turned and disappeared into the dust cloud emanating from the horse-trodden cobblestone road.
Alone, in the midst of the crowded village market I stood, a peasant girl in thread-bare clothes holding a note from the King. I slid my finger beneath the pressed wax and broke the seal, revealing the message inside.
Come to me.
Three simple words, and yet life altering. The paper was lead in my hand, and my fingers trembled under the weight of it. My heart skipped a beat, and my brow furled until my forehead hurt.
Why me, my Lord?
With tears free-falling down the hollows of my cheeks, I fell prey to the attack from the enemy within. Feasting on my insecurities the voice whispered its poison into my ear. You’re dirty, used, broken. You cannot go to the King.
But, your note. Come to me. The words jumped off the parchment and grabbing my heart, pulled it from the ebbing tide of my destitution. Hope demanded I obey. I must go to the King.
I released the broom letting it thump on the wooden steps outside my master’s store. Clutching your note to my bosom, I ran. Away from my servitude, away from my village, away from all that was familiar, I ran hard and fast. The chill of the evening’s air burned my lungs, and my breathing grew shallow, but I refused to stop until I reached the wrought iron gate that stands as a sentinel at the entrance to the garden.
And, I didn’t. Not until I crashed into the fence, letting the metal bars absorb my momentum. Catching my breath, I lay my head on the cold metal bars and wept.
I wept for the unworthiness of my soul, and for my undesirable condition that I would dare enter into the presence of the King. I flirted with the idea of turning around and heading back to the village, but a ghostly wind blew past me nudging the gate open.
I stepped inside. It was quiet. The leaves of the trees did not rustle in the wind and the cicadas did not serenade the setting sun. The weight of the garden’s silent worship was heavy making it difficult to press forward.
Broken bedrock lay scattered on the ground in a weaving path that led from the fence to a stand of ancient oaks. Passing beneath the trees’ canopy, the path fed into a courtyard of roses. Pausing, I picked a velvety pink rose, pinned it behind my ear and drew in its delicate perfume. Intoxicated, my insecurities subsided.
At the end of the courtyard, the path disappeared into Dalzure Lake. A Willow tree of unnatural proportion stood at the water’s edge. It was there that I found you.
Beneath the draping branches of the Willow, you stood staring at the last of day’s light dancing on the ripples in the water. Peace exuded from you as if it were ripe fruit hanging from a tree. The temptation of partaking from the sweet harvest drew me closer towards you.
I reticently tread the remaining length of the path until I was standing behind the Willow. You did not acknowledge my presence, nor did you remove your gaze from the lake. Staring at your back, I could not help but drink in your form. Shoulders broad with strength, arms that promised a secure embrace and ebony locks of hair that would please the eyes of many a maiden, but it was not that which caught my eye. It was your stature. Your appearance was young, yet your presence held the authority of the ancients. And though your glory seemed to emanate from the pores of your skin so that even the garden worshipped you, there was still a cloak of humility wrapped around you that fostered approachability. Here, standing behind you, my heart was pierced by the realization of how much I wanted and needed you.
I was terrified. I was also excited.
Your note still in my hand, I walked to your side. I bowed my head in respect for you and in shame of me.
Expecting to hear your voice, I felt your hand instead. You lifted my chin with your fingers, and raised my head until my eyes met yours. Meeting your gaze, I could feel you penetrate my soul.
Taking my face in both of your hands, you wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Peasant girl no more,” you said, “from now on, you are my Princess.”
I remember that first day in the garden, my Lord. And, I will never forget.
Love,
Princess
“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)
6 comments:
Gorgeous as always!
I just read this devotional on Crosswalk.com by Rebecca Barlow Jordan. I saw you in my mind as I read it. I knew I had to share it with you Spring. As I was looking for your email address, I read your post. I am blown away right now. Spring, I am passing on a message to you from the Lord. He wrote you back. This is beautiful. Wow God!
ROSE OF SHARON
I am a rose of Sharon.
Song of Songs 2:1
FROM THE FATHER'S HEART
My child, come to the garden often. I love to walk and talk with you there. In the garden I can share some of My richest and deepest secrets because your heart stills in the hush of My presence. I miss our time together when other priorities steal you away. Come, take your fill of My fragrance. And be sure to share it with others on your way.
A GRATEFUL RESPONSE
Everywhere I look, the sweet fragrance of Your presence fills up my senses. And when I come to Your garden, Lord, just You and I alone, I can savor every velvet petal. Even the thorns pressed deeply on Your brow could not destroy the essence of Your perfume. Breathe Your fragrance through my life, Lord. You are my rose of Sharon.
SIMPLE TRUTH
A garden kissed by the Son will always produce fragrant flowers.
For more from Rebecca, please visit www.rebeccabarlowjordan.com
If you would like to purchase the Daily in Your Presence devotional, or Rebecca's newest devotional 40 Days in God's Blessing, please click here!
"With tears free-falling down the hollows of my cheeks, I fell prey to the attack from the enemy within. Feasting on my insecurities the voice whispered its poison into my ear. You’re dirty, used, broken. You cannot go to the King."
This part is very powerful...speaks to my past.
Melanie@Bella~Mella
Hi Spring! I like the new picture! I've missed you SO much. I'm going to start catching up on all of the wonderful Letters to the King and Mary's Journal entries that I've missed. I've been so busy with school lately but God is so good that He made some time for me to visit my dear sisters in Blog Land.
Blessings!
Shanita
That was absolutely beautiful. "Come to me". Awesome!
It's lovely, my friend. And yes, better than before. Keep refining your work, you are chiseling beautiful things out of the raw materials you have been given!
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