I thought it was about time that I say ‘Thank You’ for your precious daily letters to my heart. You declare His Glory and regale His Handiwork in environmental epistles for the entire world to see. Each morning my eyes slide open the envelope of another day. I throw back the cocoon of my bed and run to see what you have written.
You remind me in spring with postcards of pattering rain, new budding grass, and the freshness of flowers that I am a new creature. You take His Words from the psalms and paint them in the brilliant sky, “His mercies are new every morning!”
There is no blue like the summer sky. I see the innocence and simple faith of a child in the clear expanse where you compose the provision that sustains life; sun, rain, air. I am reminded that He makes the justice of my cause shine like the noonday sun. The open canopy reminds me that there is no veil between His Love and my heart.
You pen the winter mornings with cold that turns my breath to sugar, suspended in air for a few seconds, then sprinkling down to crunch beneath my feet. The blinding white above and below me reflects the gift of purity that is mine through His sacrifice. The blood ink wrote my letter of pardon and the winter air fills my lungs with freedom. The warmth of my new heart wraps me in peace against the cold.
Sometimes I awaken to a thundering storm. This used to frighten me as a child, but now I revel in the power of it. You write in this the darkness that was dispelled forever by the Light of the world. I long to rush out and dance in the majestic rain and sing along with the thunder. My neighbors, who do not yet read your letters, would not understand the sensibleness of my insanity. As the message of the battle rages on in the sky, surely I could reach up and embrace the flashing strips of Light and be taken to Him, where I can fall at His feet and worship; but not yet.
Perhaps I love your autumn letters best, because I am in the “fall” of my life. I am rapt at the golden cast of the distant sky. As I walk towards the brilliant sunset, I crush the fallen leaves below, releasing the fragrance of forgiveness that His death bought for me. One day I will walk the golden path that the moon casts upon the waters; the path to His arms.
Thank you, heavenly scribe, for your faithful missives. I have them tied with a scarlet ribbon and stored in my heart. I read them over and over in worship to the Redeemer. What wind of His Love will you write to me in the morning?
Your fellow laborer in Christ,
Daughter of the King
P.S. I am my Beloved’s
P.S.S. And He is mine.
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