I covet the romance, the courage, the faith. I long for a time and place I can never be a part of. I have done this my whole life. I visit distant lands for days on end. I observe silently as the characters I quickly love make mistakes, take on mountains, learn lessons, face fears, unravel, find healing. I feel lonely when the book is over. Saddened by my modern, average life.
Then I hear her squeal. She is stuck under a table. I rush to her aide and her twisted face relaxes with my presence. She reaches for me and smiles as I pull her out. She leans into me with gratitude. Her hair smells like dried sweat from our morning cuddle. Her chubby arms tuck into her torso as she puts those three fingers into her mouth and holds onto her left ear. This is her most intimate arrangement and she shares it most with me. Sufficiently abated, she plays on me as though I were a forest of low hanging branches and grassy knolls and tucked away burrows. She does that funny little gremlin face while she scales my stomach. She tugs on my hair because she likes the way it feels in her long fingers - musician's fingers, my fingers. Her knees and elbows jab into my sides and I scoop her up to move her. She laughs and I laugh as we tumble around. A mess of olive skin and light brown hair. She is my daughter and she looks the part.
Safe because of the One to whom he entrusts it. Oh, the greatest love of all. Deeper than my husbands, more fulfilling than my child's. I am in a great romance, the subject of a victorious tale. I put the books down and relish the truths I've heard again. All the stories ever point to is this one. Any good is allegory, describing in simple terms the lofty we have yet to understand. The most obsessive, patient, goodwilled lover in any account is vastly less so than Him. The wisest, most inspiring, holiest father is nothing but the outer lines of a shadow. The most physically attractive and strong character is a weak representation of the Image Bearer's beauty and power. The most deserving, noble prince is a poor acting demon compared to the True King. Those who know Him have a sense that they can't really know Him. Yet are invited, trembling, into His most secret places. Those who don't know Him are left with an impression of fear and wonder after the briefest encounter. Our Creator, our precious Savior. The reason for living in this time or any before it. He was God in the 1850s and He is God today. He saw the pioneering women with their calico skirts just as He sees me in my denim and cotton. We are His beloved bride. A union more mysterious than any other and more worthy of acclaim.