Barbie Loflin

I have never been the type to wade gently into the water looking all graceful and dignified.

I am more the run-jump-hold-your-nose-plunge-splash kind of girl.I always thought the others looked pretty, but knew they could not possibly be having nearly as much fun as I was.After all, while they were standing ankle deep in tepid salt water, the waves splashing gently around their ankles, I was soaked, sputtering, coughing like crazy, and had sea weed in my teeth… Ah, the bliss.Your eyes stung, every scrape (and I had plenty) came alive with the fire of painful cleansing, and your feet sank into things best left undiscovered.

My sisters all thought I was nuts (not much has changed, by the way…).They were girl-girls.They had no idea how much fun a starfish could be when stuck to your leg, or how it felt to be thrown from a horse or hit in the face with a basketball.My sisters did not know the thrill of stealing third base, or riding dirt bikes without mom’s permission.They did not know that stars are best viewed at 1:00 am after climbing out your window and onto the roof in your orange high- top converse and night gown.Simple things, really.They could have done any of these things… but no… they liked it safe and organized and all planned out.

I began most mornings looking for socks and homework, while my sisters rolled their eyes and tapped their dainty toes in frustration.

I remember running out the front door one morning, jumping down the front steps and falling very ungracefully at the feet of my embarrassed older sisters.They looked at my mom and asked, “Oh, mother, what are we going to do about Barbie?”

Duh, Hello!I thought.You could help me get up!See, I thought they were asking what they should do at the moment, when in fact it was my whole life that left them scratching their heads and walking many paces ahead of me in public.

I did not fit in.I never have.I have always heard a different drum beat in my spirit. I knew that life was supposed to be a grand adventure, and I did not want to miss a moment of it indoors where the world lost its wondrous beauty.I needed sunshine on my face and cool grass beneath my bare feet.I needed hills to climb and puppies to wrestle. I loved to laugh and I loved to sing at the top of my voice… with only God listening.

I learned at an early age that God created creeks for lonely children with curly red hair, and that dogwood blooms fit perfectly in small hands with dirty fingernails.For, you see, God has always loved me more than I deserved and more extravagantly than I could fathom.

He has always been water to me.

And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal,

proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.

Revelation 22:1

We faced the pain together, because that was the right thing to do.  And when we left the battlefield, we left whole.  We left as one.

And the safe circle…
Remains unbroken.

Last night I dreamed I could hear the sound of water breaking against a very close shoreline. It sounded like there was an ocean just outside my door. A night-ocean. The sound drew me; drew me on a very deep level.I moved across the room and to the door and stepped out onto a balcony. It was high balcony and it overlooked the waters, and though it was dark as pitch, I knew from the sound that if the moon were to come out in full I would find myself literally suspended over the water… the sound was that close and that rich. Rolling, undulating, crashing, breaking, pounding upon the banks.I wanted terribly to see what I knew was there, but it was too dark and there was no light to reflect off of the white crests. I ached with the longing of hearing but not seeing. I could not see… but I knew, and I leaned deep into the space in hopes of catching just a glimpse of the sound.

Oh, that sound! It washed through me.In my longing I cried, “Lord, I want to see the waters.”He answered my heart, “Until you see the waters, let the sound sustain you.Trust in what you cannot see.”And with His words, my heart pressed deeper and my spirit engaged the sound of many waters. I cried… and I longed… and I hoped.Wide awake, quickened, and humbled, I moved toward the waiting.

As I stood on this balcony the Lord reminded me that this is how we are to live this life He has given us.Trusting in what we cannot see, we cry out to Him in all that we do.We hear a sound in the spirit and we long for Him in the depths.We hope – because our hearts have heard the waters; the sound of promise washing through us and pouring across eternity.We hope – because our spirits resound with the rhythm of the waves.We long – because we have tasted.We yearn – because only He can satisfy.We break – because His beauty unhinges all that held us together.

Yes, because of the breathtaking radiance of Christ we are fully and completely undone; marvelously melted.And we lean over earths temporal balcony and listen with our hearts, for that which we long for and that which resounds within our spirits.

So what do we do as we await the waters only our spirits can hear?

We move toward the sound.With everything on the inside of us we shift forward.We move in prayer, in reverence, in worship, in silence, in hope, in faith, in deep anticipation.We make a decision to move toward Him in ways that cost us something.We sacrifice praise from a new altar of brokenness.We put off the old wine skins and allow Him to make new ones.We sing, we dance, we rejoice, we cry, we kneel, we pray.We lean.

And we listen in the depths to this wonderful God of the night-ocean.

I think I must be tired. I’m not sure.

If I could sit down for a few minutes and actually think, I might be able to figure it out.Lately it seems as if the moment I sit down the phone rings or the door bell dings.This causes me to entertain the thought that my phone and doorbell are somehow attached to the seat of my comfy chair in the corner.Alas, it cannot be true, for others sit in that chair and there is no knock at the door for hours on end.

I have noticed that my email message board constantly reminds me that it is time to archive old items… which means there are way too many messages stored in its finite memory.I have decided that my computer and I have the same problem.Too many messages, so little space. My email inbox stays full, and I am quite sure there are many of you sitting out there wondering… just like the line from Dances With Wolves… Why don’t she write?

I truly mean to. I have every intention of doing so… soon. I am trusting that all of you who know me have already reached the conclusion that I do love you, and will, therefore, extend me a bit of grace.Those who do not know me… well, I will answer yours first, for I do not expect that same grace extension from you.In time, you may be asked to extend, but for now, just let me say, “The response is in the mail.”

Why do I ramble on with such nonsense?Many have asked that question.But what I find is that my mental meanderings are something of an unwinding for me.If you can for one moment picture a huge ball of yarn rolling across a polished floor, leaving its singular threaded trail, you will understand my rambling.It is as if I have wound myself around something important, and must unravel to get at the hidden center.

So what is hidden today that has prompted this trail of twine?Let’s see, I must push just a bit to straighten that last bit of unruly thread… Ah, yes, there it is.I see it clearly now.Four little letters: sert; no, ters, wait… estr… oh, there it is… rest.

I must unravel to rest.I must unwind and rest.I must meander to find my place of rest.

The Father speaks, “Rest, child.”The words cause me to breathe deep.“Rest, child.” My shoulders relax, my head bent forward, I test the neck muscles with a slow side-to-side stretch.“Rest, Child.”Head in my hands, my eyes begin to feel their own weight.Like a soft wind blowing through the trees, His voice disturbs me beautifully, “Rest, child.”One more breath; it reaches deep and sends the yarn spinning forward, one single strand meets four letters…

And I rest.

·Matthew 11:28

“…Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.

I grew up in a small town in east Tennessee. The beautiful rolling hills lay just outside the dusty curtains that hang haphazardly above my bedroom window. In the mornings, I was awakened by the sound of birds singing, the mournful moan of our red-bone hound dog, Bum, and the sound of my mother bangin’ pots in the kitchen as she scrambled eggs and fried sausage. I could tell exactly when it was time to get up, ‘cause I’d smell the biscuits browning.

My summer days consisted of fighting with my younger sister, Angie, then playing games with her. We knew those hills like our own backyard, for that is just what they were. We played ‘Lost in Space,’ -she always got to be Judy because of her blonde hair-, hide and seek, freeze tag, bicycle races, stomped through muddy creek beds, caught butterflies, lightening bugs, frogs, crawfish. We simply enjoyed life. A simple life. We lacked for nothing and wanted everything. I remember laughing loud and often. I remember jokes, smiles, music. I remember the way my father smelled on Sunday morning before church. I remember how beautiful my mom looked in her red suit.

I remember so many things; still others are reduced to images, feelings, smells. They are triggered by the strangest things. Going on a field trip with my son, sitting on his bus, I was carried back to another bus, thirty years before. The seats stuck to my legs in the same way. The bus driver peered through the overhead mirror in the same manner; you know that kind of searching-scowl that all bus drivers develop over time. I was suddenly six years old, on my way to school. I felt the same little rush, the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I shook my head to clear the deja-vu webs.

I lived in a butterscotch-colored house on a dirt road called Walls Hollow. My dad built the house after our trailer burned down one night while we were at the stock car races. Does that sound redneck enough for you? I loved our butterscotch house. I never asked why daddy painted it that color, but looking back, I feel reasonably certain that the paint must have been a good deal. Back then, I just thought it was beautiful. I felt calm when I looked at that house. I felt safe living in that house.

When my grandpa was pouring our concrete sidewalk he let all of us girls, four at that time, put our hands in the wet cement. Four perfect little hand prints sealed in time. It was fun then, it makes me cry now.

A year or so ago I went back to the old house. The new owners had changed everything. The house had been enlarged, outbuildings added. My old basketball goal was now home to a couple of cars. The garden my daddy had planted every year was gone, the yard swing absent, as well. A couple of things remained, however. Wonderful things that called me back again, to a time that now exists only in my mind.

Sitting beside the kitchen door was the dogwood tree I had loved as a child. In the springtime, it had large white blooms with crimson edges. My mother had stood with me at that dogwood tree and shared the story of how the bloom represented the cross of Christ. I remember how tenderly she held the flower as she explained its legend. I remember her hands. I look at my own hands now to see hers. They are the same.

As I approached the walk, I was almost afraid to look. Thirty years had come and gone since papaw had knelt with us, pressing chubby fingers into wet, gritty cement. What if they had erased the hand prints? Would proof of my childhood also be erased? I wanted so badly to see the four tangible imprints of my lost youth. I walked slowly, eyes shut tight as I approached the place where they had once been. I took a deep breath, counted to three, tilted my head forward and opened my eyes. They were there! I exhaled. Just as they had been thirty years earlier. Their imprint more shallow, yet undeniably there.

I knelt beside what I felt almost an effigy of the little girl I had been. My now wrinkled, dishpan hand, trembled as it cautiously traced the edges of a much smaller one. I looked at my sisters hands beside my own and flashes of a lifetime skittered through my mind. Tears, unchecked, spilled from my eyes as I mourned the loss of those tender, innocent years, then those tears were replaced by tears of triumph as I realized that all four of these little hands still led full, blessed lives. Not one of those children had been lost over the years. They all still loved one another, still played ‘house’ together – only for real this time, still spent holidays together, still rambled through the unchanging, beautiful hills of East Tennessee…

They all still laughed … loud and often.

Dirt Roads

There’s a house of butterscotch

Slumbering just down the road

Often times I travel there

Just to let my mind unfold.

I sit beneath the dogwood tree,

Touch the hand prints on the walk,

If I listen close enough,

I can hear the old walls talk…

Here comes the wind, The leaves they turn.

The pictures change, Still I have learned,

That all I’ve known, Still walks with me,

Down the dirt roads.

Daddy’s mowing in the yard

Wearing high top leather boots,

Little girls play upon the swing,

In their faded summer suits.

Sweet Mama in the kitchen there,

She’s never hard to find.

My sweet constant companions

On the back roads of my mind.

Come on wind…

Years pass swift and little girls

Hold babies of their own,

They leave the house of butterscotch,

Still, they’re forever comin’ home…

So, come on wind, leaves that turn,

The pictures change, but I have learned,

All I know will walk with me,

Down these dirt roads.

I was thinking today about the now famous poem, Footprints in the Sand.  You know the one.  It tells the story of a person looking back on his life and seeing two perfect sets of footprints side by side in the sand, only to find that during the most difficult parts of his journey, one set completely disappeared.  He turns and asks the Lord why He would leave him at such times, and the Lord replies, “Son, these are the times that I carried you…” To which we all respond, Ahhhhhh.

Well, as I pondered the poet’s words, I decided to look back at my own path.  I must say the image that struck me was something completely different.  My journey did not have two sets of pristine footprints in the sand.  Mine were more like a mosaic of circles, as I went around the same mountain over and over and over again.   Then they seemed to trace back and forth, over and over, so much so that they dug a pretty deep ditch or two.  I remembered those quite clearly.  God had to jump and save me from those.

Then there were even messier moments.

Once out of the ditch, my picture looked a little more like handprints and a nose digging through the dirt, rather than footprints.   Must have been a face-down, dragging kind of journey.   These were followed up by a plethora of me-moments; double-minded days full of zigzags, as I just couldn’t make up my mind which way to go, and areas where my propensity to disobey made it look a little like MJ’s moon-walking, while my outright rebellion much like back handsprings followed by landings I didn’t quite stick.

As I imagined my own war-zone-footprint- journey, I thought, God, how in the world did you ever mend all my frayed ends?  How did you gather this bob-and-weaver and put me on a stable path?  My footprints are crazy, Father.   My sand-life a joke.  You have carried, pursued, covered, chased, waited… with sand flying.

I was such a Jonah.

But then something wonderful happened.  Just about the time I began to listen to the accuser of the brethren, telling me how bad I had been, I heard God whisper through my spirit, “When did you stop running?”  What?  “When did the pictures change?”

And then I saw it.  The turn in the road.  The moment when my footprints started to come together and make sense.  It wasn’t a salvation moment.  I had been saved – saved too long to still be this much of a mess.  It was another kind of moment.   It was small and massive at the same time.  I could see me sitting in a room at church watching a bible study video.  As I watched the video, I so clearly remembered hearing the woman say, “If the Bible bores you, Ask God to give you a love for His Word.”

What!?

I had an epiphany!  In all of my years serving Jesus Christ, I had never thought to pray about such a thing.  Because, you see, if I were to pray and ask Him to give me a love for His Word, the He would know I didn’t love it.  (Oh Jesus, how old do we have to be to put away childish things?)  In a split second, the thought followed, I suppose He knows that I don’t like to read my Bible.   I know it sounds funny, but I am pretty sure we all think we have hidden something from God at one point or another in our lives.

That day I began to pray, “God, please give me a genuine love for Your Word.  Make it real to me.  Make it relevant for me.  Let me absolutely fall in love with Your Words… everything that tells me about You.”  And guess what?  He did it.  His Word became water to me.  He gave the Word a pulse.  When I would read it I could hear His heartbeat, feel His breath across the page.  I could not get enough.  I did not just develop a like, I lost my heart completely.  The more I read, the more I came to know Him.  The more I came to know Him, the more I trusted Him.  The more I trusted Him, the more I believed Him.  And the more I believed Him, the more stable my walk became.  My foundation of religious practices was traded for a foundation of Truth, and my love for God’s house became a love for God Himself.

I stopped looking back.  I stopped running away.  I stopped being double-minded, and I stopped living my life repeating yesterday’s mistakes (for the most part:0)

Today my prayer is that there be only one set of footprints.  Not because He is carrying me, but because I walk in His footsteps as He goes before me.

Have you checked out your own prints lately?

Many have asked me about the origin of the song Beautiful You Are. Some of you know it was birthed from a dream. So, I thought I would share it with you, offering only the charge to weigh everything in your own spirit, for that is what we are called to do with Spirit matters… and leave the rest to the Father.

Love you guys!

Beautiful You Are – The Dream

The room was quiet as I drew the covers up to my chin. My mother, whom I was visiting at the time, loves to keep the house cold at night so I burrowed deeper in to the downy blankets as my mind began to drift into the soft recesses of semi-consciousness. I remember thinking, God, You are so beautiful to me… beautiful, You are so beautiful. As my eyes closed and sleep came, my spirit man soared and completely explored what my conscious mind could not. I journeyed into the fierce beauty of God.

This is my testimony.

I stood as an onlooker… a silent witness to the sacred goings on around me. I knew that I slept, but at the same time knew that what I was seeing was very real; more tangible than the touchable and more fluid than water through the fingers.

The expanse of space before my eyes was completely white, yet shape and shadow, form and movement could be easily seen, or perhaps a better word would be sensed. I had a keen awareness of the center point from which all flowed in this place – life, breath, wholeness…joy. I knew without anyone telling me that the place I stood within was Holy, yet completely accessible. There was Sovereignty in communion with fragile humanity. To describe the scene in fleshly terms falls pitifully short of the profoundly peaceful, exquisitely detailed perfection of the atmosphere in which I found myself.

The Throne sat in the center of the space. I could not see it, though I knew it was directly to my right. I knew He sat upon it… though I could not see Him. I looked directly into the place in which I knew Him to be, still, my eyes were unable to see His beauty. I found Him beautiful, nonetheless. The very breathe of God filled the room with piercing clarity and reverent awe.

How can I explain what I knew, but could not see? How does one give a description of spiritual sights they did not see, but saw nonetheless?

Just as the Throne sat within the center of the space, white, yet translucent; without actual substance, but substantial all the same, so did the crowd surround the Throne. For defining purposes I will call them the cloud of witnesses. Beginning at a circumference of about 100 feet and spreading for as far as the eyes could see, this invisible, present throng stood silent, yet their praise was felt through every fiber of my being. They encompassed a limitless space, circling the unseen but known.

I watched as one mesmerized as one small person emerged from the crowd. Walking forward, head bowed, the small one approached the foot of the Throne and the One Who sat upon it. I could see that the small one held something within her hands; something which she longed to lay at the feet of The Holy One. She beheld the gift as if it might not be enough, and struggled with the releasing of it because of its smallness. The desire to give was greater than the gift she was able to bring. Still, she offered it with words I could not hear, from a heart that sang in worship to Him Who sat upon the Throne. As the gift touched the feet of God, the eyes of the giver lifted to the One Who received. An absolute liquid radiance filled her face as she beheld Him and she began to sing to the Father… Beautiful, You are… Beautiful, You are… Beautiful, You are, to me…

The crowd began to sing the song as if they had sung it for ages; their voices lifting in sweet unison with the small one… Beautiful, You are, Beautiful, You are. Beautiful, You are to me.

The One Who sat upon the Throne accepted the gift and the worship and He was pleased. Fulfillment, unequaled, poured through the small one as she gazed upon her Beloved. She rose slowly, eyes fixed upon Him, and began to walk away; her face turned toward Him, looking back over her shoulder as she walked… gazing upon a visage I as yet, had not been able to look upon.

I wondered what gift she had offered. Just as the thought ran through my mind, I knew the answer: “All she had.”

My heart pounded as I watched to see what would happen next. Again, I watched one leave the crowd and walk forward, hands cupped as if carrying an offering. This one walked as if wounded. His legs did not move as one in good health. Haltingly he approached, his gaze turned downward. Before He reached the feet of the Holy One, he stumbled and fell. As he fell, he made no move to catch himself, but instead, released the offering toward the feet of God. Facedown he lay, his offering tumbling over the feet of Holiness. As the simple offering touched the holy, strength came into the man and he rose to hands and knees. He sat back upon his heels and gazed for the first time into the face of the Holy One. Falling forward, this time of reverent awe, I heard the smallest sound begin to come from the lips of the man – words I could not hear, but understood. Then, just as the small one had done, he began to sing: Beautiful… Beautiful… Beautiful, You are Beautiful.

The throng joined in the awed chorus, testimonies acknowledging what their spirits knew full well… Beautiful, You are… Beautiful, You are…

When I looked again upon the man, he stood full height and strong backed. Muscle and sinew had formed upon what had once been weakened flesh. His voice strong now, he sang in a rich baritone, issuing forth from a deep well… Beautiful, You are… Turning, he began to walk the way of the first, turning to glance over His shoulder at The One. Whole now, I could not stop the thought, What did he bring, Lord?

Again, I knew the answer before speaking, “The rest”.

I had no need to ask what He meant, for I have all too often heard the words of the Spirit within speaking those same words to me… What about the rest?

Finally, I watched as what appeared to be a beautiful woman, separated herself from the cloud of witnesses. Walking forward, her gaze was fixed upon Him from the very first moment she stepped out. She knew Him well. He had truly captivated her heart. She moved with a graceful rhythm to her step, almost dancing as she brought her offering. Her eyes never left His until the moment she stood at His feet. Without hesitation she fell to her knees, her arms coming around His ankles as her tears flowed over His feet. Her face resting against his calve, His garment came around her shoulders. He covered her, for He was her Kinsman Redeemer. Her tears mingled with the offering of fragrant oil she held in her hand. She began to pour the oil over His feet. The small vile became an endless supply, and its fragrance began to fill the nostrils of the masses. The woman bent forward, kissed the top of each foot and resumed her enveloped place at His feet. With tears streaming down her face, dampening the precious Kinsman garment with which He had covered her, she began to sing, Beautiful, You are… Beautiful, You are…, Beautiful, You are to me…

The oil pooled and gathered, increased and began to flow. Tears and fragrant oil began to reach the feet of the throng, and they began to sing full voiced. Beautiful, You are…

Lord, I thought, what did she bring? What could have possibly brought that would release the throng in this way? I simply heard, “Her testimony.”

I knew He spoke of her love for Him. It was her testimony. It was who she had become in Him. She was His, and the testimony of this redemption was great.

As the space filled with the purest expression of what I can only describe as the wetness of worship, the cloud of witnesses began to sing their own testimony. Each testimony was different, but as it issued from their lips, the song became the same… Beautiful, You are…

In this moment of acute awareness the unseen somehow became visible, and faith became sight. The room filled with His presence and His fragrance became a part of me.

Without seeing, I saw, and without touching, I felt, and the song began to rise within me. I heard myself singing, as my spirit stood witness to the offerings of thousands, and I knew for certain what I had always thought I’d known… He is Beautiful: Fiercely, marvelously, beautiful. He is unparalleled in every imaginable way.

The sound of my voice awakened me in my mother’s house, as I sang aloud the chorus of heaven. I could not shake the changeless rhythm of it. I reached for a pen and wrote down the words I had heard.

For weeks I carried the song of the witnesses. Everywhere I went I moved with its rhythm. I could not come out of that place. It moved within me like a living thing, this “worship that sees.” Finally, one day as I sat pondering the song within, understanding dawned. I am not supposed to lose their song and move forward. I am supposed to take their song forward. I am supposed to carry the song of the witness, sharing the knowledge that they have gained with the ones who seek this wisdom in the earth, until all come to the deep understanding of His Fierce Beauty, and can sing with one voice… Beautiful, You are. Beautiful, You are. Beautiful, You are to me…

And the cloud of witnesses joins the song…

Beautiful You Are – Their Song

I will not offer You that which costs me nothing

I will not come before You with empty hands

This fragrant oil of worship I will lavish upon You

As I bow at the feet of my Holy God

Beautiful, You are, Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are to me

I lift my cup to You, give it all up for You

Lay everything out before Your eyes

Everything that I should be, could or would be

I leave at the feet of my Holy God

Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are to me

Oh, My Kinsman Redeemer may your handmaiden draw near

Spread Your garment over me a while

For Your song it does call me, as this threshing floor draws me

To lay at the feet of my Holy God

Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are to me

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven…
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them…

God always answers, one way or another,even when people don’t recognize His presence. (Job 33:11-13)

What do you do when you simply cannot find the words to tell Him how much you love Him?How do you sing a song to Him that only your heart knows?How do you lay out before Him, your soul open and longing for His touch, waiting for what you cannot even name?

That’s where I am today.I find myself so completely and beautifully broken before this God that I love.I am at once ready to cry and moved to laughter.
Overwhelmed.

Yes.

I am overwhelmed.

His goodness has gripped me, His heartbeat resounds in my ears, and I feel His breath winding through my spirit.  Oh, I love how He messes me up.
Mascara streaks my face as Kleenex form tiny Ebenezer’s all around this well-worn carpet.Just when I think I am fully unraveled and ready to sit upright, I feel that tight grabbing in the abdominal region and I buckle once again as His presence rocks my world.How foolish to think He was done with this work.

Face down I teeter between heaven and cool linoleum.

One prayer.One small sentence.I should have known He was listening.This ongoing revelation of lesser gods, and small pursuits; the painful disintegration of what I thought I knew.It brings me to but one conclusion:God is answering my unconscious prayer; “Father, let there be less of me and more of You.”

It sounded great at the time, somewhat holy, in fact, for the emphasis in my mind was upon the more of you part.Foolishly we think that more of Him is easily placed on top of what already exists within us.However, somewhere between the carpet fibers and eternity, the emphasis flew onto the wrong words, and it wound up on the less of me part.

And He just keeps answering.

As I move through prayer into the Holy Places of His presence, I am painfully aware that there is so much still to surrender, as clutched hands attempt to hide this heart and all of its shallowness.He allows me brief glimpses of my various vanities before He steps in and covers me, reminding me that He is enough… and less is inevitably coming.

Who could ask for more?

I stood by the window and looked out over the field in front of my mother’s house.  Acres of garden now spent and dried, lay stretched before me.  The Blallock’s old farmhouse stood on the hill across the dirt road, a stark white contrast to the deepening shadows of the day.In between the two aged dwellings something wonderful was taking place – something of eternal significance; my cousin was marrying his bride.

I watched as men in overalls and women in gingham dresses made their sojourn across the field, not to an arbor or a lace covered gazebo, but simply to the center of the field… the same field that had grown their crops, fed their families, and resounded with the feet of running children.The tender circle began to form.There was no wedding coordinator to lead the way, or ushers to seat grand ladies, there was simply a gathering.A gathering of good people.

As the country minister made his way to the center of the circle, the father of the groom threw a stone at a barking hound dog, prompting it to head back to its lazy perch upon the worn rug which graced the weathered plank front porch.Then I saw them – the bride and the groom – walking hand in hand toward the gathering.She wore a simple white dress, and he – well, he shone brightly in his dress white uniform; the same he will wear when he leaves for Iraq this week.

As the couple drew near, the circle opened to receive them, then closed once again around them.They were encircled by generations of faithful hearts and strong backs, generous souls with calloused hands.And as I watched, generations bowed to thank their Creator for the blessed bounty of this day.A day without crystal goblets and chandeliers.A day without string quartets and satin slippers.A day when cotton dresses and work boots would stand witness to God’s goodness.

The sun began its descent just as the preacher whispered shyly to the groom – “You can kiss her now.”The soldier bent his head and kissed his pink cheeked bride, holding her close to his heart, as the circle grew quite small.Hands were shaken, backs patted and embraces shared as the couple was absorbed into the hearts of their kin.

Men and women, hand in hand, turned and made their way across the field and down the road to their own dwellings.Life resumed… and the field brought forth life, once again.

I will betroth you to me forever; I will betroth you in righteousness and justice, in love and compassion. I will betroth you in faithfulness, and you will acknowledge the LORD.

Hosea 2: 19 & 20