Letters to Luthien

Letters to My Future Bride

If I Met You

14. Lynch, Brent - Twilight RomanceIf I met you, it would be like an unexpected wave of happiness washing over me and leaving an irresistible smile in its wake. It would be like God sweeping back the curtain as only He can, saying “Here she is!”

If I met you, I would be worried I’d forget your name, partly because my memory blanks in happiness, and partly because it takes time to commit to memory.

If I met you, it wouldn’t matter what your name is. It would be above my likes and dislikes; it would describe you, and that is all I need know.

If I’d met you, your face wouldn’t burn itself into my mind yet, but your soul would have. That means I would get to see you anew each time we meet. I would better know and remember your character; I would know you better from the inside out.

If I met you, it would be natural, so natural as to arouse both fear and suspicion. I would continually worry someone got it wrong, had messed up the paperwork, that someday Santa would come back all apologies and say there’s been a dreadful mistake, this happiness was meant for someone else.

I’d be worried it isn’t real.

There wouldn’t be a lot of drama, or angst, or fear. For the first time, there wouldn’t be any roadblocks except what I put up to make sure to take it slow. It would be fearful and freeing; a green light and an open road for the first time.

If I met you I would finally realize why it never clicked with anyone else, the people with whom I always felt some kind of roadblock; a lack of peace, a lack of clearance, a lack of something. I’d realize that I wasn’t supposed to be with any of those people, because they weren’t you.

With you, there wouldn’t be those hangups. Just peace, clearance and a divine “go get ’em.”

If I met you, I would kneel to pray at nights and God would beat me to the punchline: “Ain’t she something?”

If I met you, we’d spend so much time together in that first week that it would feel rushed. You’d be surprised my questions were so deep and direct, but you’d answer openly and truthfully.

If I met you, conversation would be easy, open, and pleasant; it would be worthwhile for its own sake. We’d mull over the deep questions, a steady flame rising in each of us as we realized our expectations, hopes and dreams were met (complemented, fed, fueled) by the other. We’d each be the hope that neither of us dares trust.

If I met you, I’d have to hold myself back. I’d be loving what I’m seeing, dying to know more. I’d want to share with you every keepsake, souvenir and heirloom accrued during the journey here. I’d have to remind myself to hold back and go slow. Someone who gives me such peace to pursue deserves to be pursued slowly and intentionally, savoring each moment along the way, and not diving in too quickly, for principle’s sake if nothing else.

Your faith would be real, your strength and boldness would be evident. You would take me off guard with how winsome you are. You’d be encouraging and attentive, just the right combination of confidence and vulnerability. There’d be lots of little “perks” about you, an alignment of the quirks and eccentricities that just fuel the feeling we were made for each other.

If I met you, my mind would immediately set about marveling at the few twisted ends of my timeline it can comprehend, which seemed at the time to be in such shambles, but in truth have conspired seamlessly towards our introduction. I’d trace all the paths that led me to you, recognizing that each and every one fulfilled a purpose, and if even one of them had gone wrong, we wouldn’t have met.

If I met you, we’d go to the movies. You’d smuggle frozen yogurt in your purse, and we’d bend in to whisper comments or jokes about the movie or its plot holes. It would be an excuse to touch heads, for you as much as me. Whispering in your ear would inexplicably feel like home, and like resisting a magnet to pull away.

I’d be worried such joyful potential wouldn’t last. That it isn’t as “meant to be” as it feels, or that I’m going too fast.

If I’d met you, then time away would renew my mind’s questioning it was real. I’d question your looks, your personality, your attraction. Then you’d surprise me from behind, and as I turn to look, the sum of all my fears and doubts melts into a herd of butterflies which migrate into my stomach.

If I met you, it would make me just a little light-headed. It would be exactly as I imagined, and yet nothing could have prepared me for it. I would question how on earth I could know to expect an experience and follow a script I’d done nothing but imagine.

If I met you, I would want to tell people, random people: “Hey! I think I’ve found her!” But they won’t care. They’re too casual in their own pursuits to appreciate the beginning of something amazing — the end of the loneliness. They fall too easily, too quickly. A love left until the due time to cure in its own isolation, a time so long that when it’s brought forth, it’s the most pure and refined of droughts can’t be imagined by those who fall so easily.

If we met, it would be the first time I’ve encountered living proof that the girl of such character and quality exists.

If I met you, I would mention it casually to a friend or two, knowing there’s nothing casual about it. I’d write e-mails to my mother about you, trying to convince her you’re the real deal. They wouldn’t believe me. wouldn’t believe me.

I’d look at you, furtively and fervantly. “Luthien?” I’d ask hopefully. And even though you didn’t know who she was…you’d suddenly find yourself hoping you were.

And above all, if I met you…all this would be real, but I couldn’t tell it to you yet. Instead…instead I would retreat here, to my sacred and transparent refuge, where I would chart all these experiences, and hold my breath for the next step.

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July 11, 2013 Posted by | Anticipation, Our Timeline | Leave a comment

Would Have, Could Have, Should Have

RainyLight “There are waves of forgiveness
And waves of regret
And the first waves of true love, I’ve never felt yet
In the meadow that morning as I wandered alone
There were green waves of yearning for life still unknown.”

Secret Garden

Dear Darling,

It’s quiet here at work. Finally. They’d get after me for even admitting it…hospital workers can be superstitious sometimes. I’ve no doubt I won’t be able to finish this before the shift is over, but my brain is brimming with too many ideas not to write. They’ll spill out onto the floor, where people can see and point and laugh. Best to sweep them into some private vessel and wait until later to collate them.

I’m mulling over this idea of “would have, could have, should have.” What I constantly feel my life should be, versus what it is. Most people have their career off and running by now. If life is a game of pinball, I climbed back on the launching pad and am patiently (or, attempting to) awaiting the slow descent so that my spring-loaded launch can be a little more direct and far-reaching the second time. And again, there’s plenty of accomplishments that people twice my age would envy. That’s the challenge of comparing yourself to others, isn’t it. Some people make you feel good about yourself, and some people really show you up.

What about love? At times I hold my head high because I’ve never made a mistake in love to speak of. That’s easy enough, because I’ve never BEEN in love. But then I observe the vast and impossible likelihood of finding anyone else of such a stature. And that maybe I’ve got the wrong idea about what “stature” is composed of. In one sense, I know I can never find you fully unscathed from love. You may have given it before, been hurt by it. But I’m so foolishly jealous. I wanted to be your first love. If love was so unattainable for me, I suppose I’m just foolish enough to hope for the same. I wanted to be yours only and always, because that’s how I’ve always thought of you.

Did I miss out? Should I have waded into love earlier, been a little more carefree, thought a little less? Isn’t that what everyone else does? Don’t I want to avoid that because…well, because that’s what everyone else does?

Would things have been different if the gates of my heart weren’t so solidly sealed shut, awaiting the spell to break them…a spell I’m perhaps deluded into thinking you will know? Should I have given my heart more freely and lovingly, even to the point of breaking? In discussions, I see women who state they could forgive a man who had erred with his whole body, and with that of another woman. Sometimes even this, their own personal sentiments of grace, angers me. Why should I labor to restrain myself, to wait, to shun sin and banish even the wicked thoughts of sin, pleading for forgiveness and deliverance from its contemplation, when it doesn’t matter?

Maybe I don’t want to need forgiveness. Maybe I want to need as little of it as possible. Maybe there’s enough of the Pharisee in me as to try to earn salvation, even a penny’s worth. Or maybe it’s just that I’m striving to please God. The “once and always” question of my life will always be: “Is God happy with me?”

I have high expectations. Of myself as much as anyone. I put pressure on myself to get things right, to help others get things right, not to fail. I hold others to those expectations, justifying it because I allow others only as much grace as I need.

It’s an extreme dissonance; on the one side, I’m told “be zealous, do not give in to sin, take even the thoughts captive, for even alone they are offensive to God.” On the other side, “keep your zeal to yourself! Do not be so harsh or unforgiving to others. Be gracious and forgive all.” I’m asked to be harsh only with myself, asked to deny only myself, and grant pardon en masse to anyone who cannot match. All while it’s supposed to be more difficult for me. No one actually expects a man to wait anymore. I’m viewed as less of a one simply because I love only one woman enough to wait for her! Added to that, the fact that so far as I know, my desire burns hotter than many, a fierce drive perhaps greater than most men. A fire withheld whose flames burn hotter.

Where are you now, right this very moment, at 5 in the morning as the dark of night still reigns, as the sick lay in their beds while I attend them? No doubt your head is on your pillow, breathing rhythmically and deeply, lost in a dream world. (I paused just now to pray that the Lord would grant you the pleasantest of dreams.) I would give worlds to gaze into your face for ten seconds. I would memorize every feature possible; I would be thoughtful about what you were doing, inspired and thrilled and heartbroken all at once.

But as I gaze out my window tonight, the same window you see above, dark and speckled with rain, drowsy and preparing for bed, I start to think maybe it will be okay after all. Maybe it won’t be a spell. Maybe you’ll walk past in a posture humble and bold, as one who belongs, and the gates, so startled and taken back by your confidence, admit you before they come to their senses. Maybe love won’t be nearly as complicated as our society and our drama contrive.

Maybe love isn’t borne on the backs of lions or eagles or doves. Maybe it just comes, gently and properly in soft conversation while sitting on the back of a truck watching fireworks. Maybe it whispers rather than shouts, yet bears a quiet authority sufficient to silence all this angst and pondering.

Maybe it really will just feel right. Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.

Yours always,
Beren

July 5, 2013 Posted by | Holidays, Nights Like These | Leave a comment