Back in the warmth of my room I evaluate the course of events that just transpired. A young man on this campus has my attention; my whole attention. Either that or in the words of an old friend, "he is dead to me." Every time I see him it feels as if I were facing the ultimate judge of my life. It's been this way since the beginning, on the first snowy night we met, where I sat curled up on my bed in the company of a stranger who I thought might become a very important person in my life. But what is my life? What I have I chosen to do with my life? And how can this man possibly be involved with it?
I never can explain to myself the kind of attraction I feel. He is an allegory to me. Yet all of the details of his character are the only way the allegory ever speaks. There is a perfect relationship between his words and his gestures, as if deed were commanding mind and vice versa. He indicates the beauty of stability, knowing oneself, loyalty to oneself. He is in effect, my self. He walks ahead of me on the open lawn in front of Old Kenyon. Despite the gloomy rain he screams pleasantness. Under his light I see a heart in myself that I don't like. Is it merely the memory of him seeing me at my weakest hour that scares me, or the falseness of me stooping to his level of life? When in fact, mine may be the better, the more lasting, since mine is grounded in offering up myself?
Sitting in my small white wooden chair I turn my head and stare into the steady drizzle behind me. "I do not think he can satisfy our desire for a companion." My mind does a full turn back to The Truth. My companion is the one who died for me. The basics are underneath, waiting for me to put my full trust in them. He is my Bridegroom. Do I have a love for His love? Do I want my love to be like His love? If it was, maybe I could come forth to my co-soldier without comparison. Maybe I could bear his light, and the exactness of his being, his diligence, his long labor, because His is greater, and He is my only judge, and the only one who knows me entirely.
I'm in a constant state of self-education. Soon this one struggle shall eddy and make more clear the larger one at hand. How spiritual is life to be? What is the best thing for me? Have not all relationships in my past, and the one I dream of occasionally now when I lose interest in spiritual things, only indicate my capacity to live in awe and devotion to my Maker?
I'm after a life of worship again. I'm writing only because of it. There is no other cause to write. When I write as though my writing had worth apart from my pursuit of God I never feel I am being authentic. I ran long and steady this morning; I opened my heart to the author and protector of our faith. What is there to fear? What man, what passion, what hour, is there to bridle such a one, so pure, so honest, so willing to discover who is she is made to be?
Let go of the boy who whistles. We don't know if he is cold underneath. Trying to figure it out would take us away from freedom in the perfect knowledge of Christ. This is a road only fit for one. Oh Lord! If only there was another who could join me, in their own way! But you are working it out... you are always working on your creation. I love you best when I humbly accept, obey your commands, and hang on.
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