The Only Way to Become the Bride of Christ

We become the bride of God whenever we say yes to this moment.

This is the fall of three weddings.

The first, we sit in the woods under leaves and a sky that falls, all water, to witness a girl made princess says yes to her knight come riding. The bride and the groom, they enact a love story on the hillside, a parable of a Prince who loved a heart enslaved, of the coming Bridegroom and passion that wildly pursues. We all clap when they kiss. We eat soup from caldrons over fires. My brother is a groomsmen and I take a picture of him in his blouse and sash. The bridesmaids twirl like minstrels.




The second, we drive 5 hours one way to stand at the edge of a lake at a Bible Camp to witness my 76-year-old widowed father-in-law make vows to a widowed pastor’s wife. Our Hope-girl gives the Scripture reading. We sing the Lord’s Prayer. We stand as a family for pictures. I think of the faces missing. We drive the five hours home in the dark, all the children sprawled and sleeping. The Farmer says it quiet into the stream of headlights, that his head aches. I think it’s his heart. I squeeze his hand.



The third, we sit on pews before stained glass and look at plaques on the wall for a William who died in 1876 and the bride wears white with red running shoes. The bridesmaids wear black silk — and black running shoes. The bride does it often through the service, lays her hand gentle on her stomach, on her satin and her pearls. On their love five months swollen. On Grace now knitting a son. She is due in February and they think Isaiah is a good name. They sign the registry and flashes punctuate the forever and I think about not stealing that which isn’t ours yet to rightly take and I have known outrageous grace. I hold her tight in the receiving line because she who has been forgiven of much loves much.



And the Monday after the last of the trinity of fall weddings, the young and the old and the sinners made right, I unfold an order of service and know the order of the world. We are always being wooed and each grace-filled moment waits patient for our yes to His love.

We become the bride of God whenever we say yes to this moment.

Yes to the parent who won’t return phone calls and the teen who won’t return early, and yes to life’s question marks, stretch marks and skid marks, and yes to the friend with terminal cancer and to this day with interminable lists. And who can thank God for these moments, for the wind silver in poplars and for a renting open of the east blue sky? Who can say yes to God for richer or poorer, yes to all that He proposes for this one unknown day? What love would the world make if we said yes to all the moments, if all the moments loved their Maker?

Another world is possible. It is on it’s way when we murmur yes, when we whisper our thank yous. Today I could wear white. I could love enough to say Yes which is the only way to really live. Loving where you are is a way to love Who He is.

God asks for our hand. The gospel is that we say yes to Him again and again and again.

To give thanks or not give thanks… that is always the question.

On a Monday, the first of November, I have my answer for Him.

The last of the leaves fall here this morning, a blaze of confetti.


Whatever God has promised gets stamped with the Yes of Jesus. In him, this is what we preach and pray, the great Amen, God’s Yes and our Yes together, gloriously evident. God affirms us, making us a sure thing in Christ, putting his Yes within us. ~2 Cor. 1:18-20



#2041 – #2055 of the endless gifts

saying yes to…

torrential laundry

interminable lists

the fullness of this moment

the emptiness of my will

steam rising from bathwater

open windows at the end of October

when the Farmer calls my father

farmer markets on Saturday afternoons

sabbath rest on Sunday and books and candlelight and laughter… and much work on Monday

wrinkles around his eyes

holding hands all the hours home

being behind

being weak

being in His will

being here

holy experience

button code here

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