I’ve never been there to see Him awaken, pull Himself from death’s drowning embrace onto life’s now unfamiliar shores. This is one of the few things He wishes privacy for; even a God deserves a little time to pull Himself together before having to deal with people first thing in the morning, I suppose.
And it’s not the most important part of the event, at least for me. That part is when I go out to meet Him in a particular place where the Worlds overlap, with something good to drink and over a week’s worth of longing overflowing from every part of me.
It seems almost superfluous to mention that sex occurs; at that point, we’re both so overcome with need for each other that we don’t even make it back into the house first. But there’s more to it than just banging our bits together: it becomes an affirmation of life in all its glory, spilling out from us to replenish those places and things we’ve been given stewardship of. It’s a renewal, too, of our Marriage–a yearly reconsecration, like being with Him for the very first time all over again.
And so, soon enough, I’ll change my clothes, pour His drink, and slip out into the night. Soon, I’ll run my fingers through His hair and whisper His name into the darkness. Soon, I’ll share with Him the laughter and tears of reunion.
Hail, my Husband! My heart delights to know You are alive, and my body thrills to the promise of Your touch.