reciprocal delight
Disclaimer: this bit is a slight pivot from my natural ramblings, a genre shift of sorts, but the when the faucet is flowing, i’d hate to cut it off…
Directions for use: slow, uninterrupted intake recommended. post-read chewing and rest also encouraged.
- a meditation from John 14:1-12 -
you’re speaking to the group, talking about what’s happening, that you’re going somewhere, that where you’re going there is room, that we know the way. i’m sitting in a stool, listening with the group, but off to the side. there’s a distance, yet an intrigue. i’m taking notes, and also combing my memory. memories of these times we’ve had, while also listening to your words, listening for what you’re actually saying, listening for what you’re not saying. i can’t remember you showing us a place. where’s the path we apparently already know? you’re still talking, conversing, and you cut your eyes towards me - i quick glance down, back to my notes, feeling vulnerable as if you’ve heard my mental deliberations. luckily others are confused too - piping up with questions of their own. i’m safe to sink back in, to my stool in the corner, my notes, my thoughts.
i look up again, and all of a sudden, you’ve pulled up a stool in front of mine. we’re sitting knee-to-knee now. the others in the room fade away. it’s just you and me, you’re leaning in. i feel myself pulling back and heart pattering a bit. but you wait. you wait for me to take the bid, the bid to you, face-to-face. i struggle to see you - easier to look down or close my eyes. but your eyes penetrate the resistance. your hands reach into mine. there is warmth here. i feel myself soften and i try again, try again to take in your face, make out your features in the dim room.
then it brightens. in the room and in the presence. i feel an eagerness in you rising up, in your hands, in your face. it’s time to go, you’re ready to take me there, this place, to get away with me.
now we’re outside. i see you heading towards a trail into the woods, i recognize it, a narrow, small path cutting into the curtains of the forest. it’s familiar yet unknown, i’ve never ventured in before. your hand reaches back to take mine - urging and guiding me along. yet patient, kind, and playful. “come on this adventure,” i almost here you saying. and we walk. together.
i have no idea how long we walked. it doesn’t matter. but i remember the cabin. we came upon a sudden opening, as the trail leaves the trees, and there it was. we slowly take the squeaky steps to the porch and open the screen door, drawing us in. it’s basic, small, only space for a bed, basic stove and kitchenette, and small old table tucked at the window. it’s cozy, i’ve been here before. it’s familiar, yet different. you weren’t here last time, you’re here now. i can tell you’ve been here too, it smells like you, you’ve put your own touches on the place.
in an easy, natural dance, you usher me to sit at the table. settle. what’s out the window i can’t recall. i follow your moves, as you turn back to the counter. with your back to me, i see the ease of your shoulders, steadiness of your posture. then i smell the coffee. simple yet rich, fresh yet comfortable. you turn, mugs in hand, steam meeting your chest as you come towards the table, towards me. i reach out, receive your offering.
we settle. you wait. your grin says, “go ahead.” sip. taste. the bold, fruity, warm, trickles down my soul. i set the mug down, but can’t let go. it’s warm. then I notice the warmth from my other hand, resting in yours. i notice our legs tangled yet still. there’s collaborative calm here. i sneak my eyes up and meet your gaze. notice your patience and calm, your grin, your contentment in seeing me seeing you. with each sip, each breath, i lean back. it gets easier. seeing you seeing me.
nothing to say, no where to go.
there is warmth here.
there is stillness here.
there is rest here.
there is enough here.
delighting in you,
delighting in me,
delighting in you,
delighting in me…
without end.