I am pleased, for once, with what I see reflected back to me. Though I know it doesn't matter. I am here for One who doesn't notice the outward appearance but instead looks at the heart. And through the unfathomable work of grace, I know He sees a pure heart, virginal, and white as snow. I still struggle to grasp the magnitude of such a gift.
I turn back to the table and reach into my bag, then pull out my Bible and the small turquoise box and place both on the table.
I shiver in the musty chill of the cave and wrap my arms around myself.
My whisper breaks the silence. "Is this silly?"
You are My beloved.
I open my Bible to the Song of Songs. "'I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.'" I leave the Bible open on the table, reach for my coat, and fan it out on the floor in front of the candelabras. I walk back to the table, close the Bible, and take it and the little box back to my coat. I kneel on the coat and set the Bible and box on the coat as well.
In the flickering glow of the cave, I bow my head. But before making the vow that's woven itself into my mind and heart since Gerard's death, I think of Matthew.
I see the ease of his smile and hear the exuberance of his tone. I think of his passion. His love. His strength. And all he represents to me. Matthew embodies my deepest desire—the Spirit of the One I love.
"Lord, I want no other. No one but You." I shiver again. "I give myself to You now and for all eternity."
I pick up my Bible and turn to the verses I have marked for this moment and read aloud:
"Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood. For your Maker is your husband—the Lord Almighty is his name."
I claim God's words to the Israelites for myself today.
Cold, I wrap my arms around myself again and consider picking up my coat and putting it back on, but decide to wait until I'm finished and stand again. Instead, embracing myself, I bow my head again. I wait. Silent. Wondering. Will the Spirit speak to my soul on this day?
As I wait, I'm aware of a warm sensation beginning in my chest. It spreads inward and then outward, from chest to neck, shoulders, and then down my arms. Soon, every part of my body is flushed with a radiant heat, from fingertips to toes. I unwrap my arms from around my torso and let them rest at my sides. I lift my head and open my eyes. But there is no explanation for the warmth that envelops me like . . .
I smile. Like the embrace of a lover on a cold winter morn.
I lean my head back, inhale, and raise my arms heavenward. I offer myself body and soul to my Beloved.
Loving.
Desiring.
Trusting.
"I will have no other god before You." My vow echoes through the chambers of the cave and in the recesses of my soul. "You are my Husband."
I bend and reach for the little turquoise box. I open it and smile. Inside is a simple platinum band inlaid with small baguette diamonds. It has none of the flash of the four-karat Bouvier heirloom or its recent replacement. But it is, I'm certain, the ring my Beloved has chosen for me.
I think back . . .
Was it just three days ago? The day before Gerard's funeral, I'd gone to find something appropriate to wear—a dark-colored suit or dress. I didn't care. It seemed so insignificant. I'd taken a cab to Union Square and wandered, dazed. People on the streets or even the stores themselves went unnoticed. It was the first time I'd had been alone since the night of Gerard's death. I ambled on Post Street headed nowhere in particular. My mind was empty—my heart cold. As I neared the corner, I felt a nagging sense that I was to stop and look back.
Curious, I turned and saw nothing but a few tourists window-shopping. I looked up to see what store they stood in front of. Tiffany's. I turned back and continued to the corner. But the nagging sense followed me. When I reached the corner, I turned back again.
Why would I go to Tiffany's? I have a safe full of jewelry. But I wandered back nonetheless. I stood in front of the square display windows gazing at diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires glittering under the jeweler's lights.
Just as I turned to go, I noticed the band, elegant in its simplicity, and was drawn to it. As I looked at it, an idea formed. And then I knew.
This was to be my ring.
Our ring.
Symbolic of a new union.
I look down at the marquis diamond and platinum band on my left hand. The diamond hasn't left my finger since . . . Not even to go into the safe. But now, I slide the rings off my finger and place them on the ring finger on my right hand. I open the Tiffany's ring box, but hesitate. Is it too soon for such a public display of my widowhood? What will Brigitte say?
No. Now is the time. God made that clear. Gerard is no longer my husband. I put all thoughts of Brigitte's judgment out of my mind. "I will have no other god before You."
I pull the band from the box and slip it onto my ring finger. On my left hand.
I smile. "Thank You." The tiny diamonds sparkle in the candlelight. "I am Yours."
I love you, Jenna. The words dance through my mind and reverberate in my soul.
I close the ring box, pick up my Bible, and stand back up, my knees stiff from kneeling. I walk the few steps back to the table and place the box and Bible back beside the three candles. I take one of the lit tapers and light the middle candle—the unity candle. Another gesture symbolic of the covenant I've made today.
I reach for the decanter and pour some of the red wine into the wine glass and I uncover the bread. Then I open my Bible to 1 Corinthians 11 and read aloud.
"The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, 'This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.'"
I bow my head to give thanks, but find that nothing in the language of humanity suffices to express the gratitude I feel. Instead, in silence, I offer Him access to my heart—a heart, I pray, that is fully surrendered to Him. Then I pick up the round of sourdough, break off a small piece, and place it in my mouth.
His body, broken for me.
I glance back to the Bible.
"In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, 'This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.'"
I sip the wine and swallow it despite the lump in my throat. I wipe the tears slipping down my cheeks.
His blood, shed for me.
This is the new covenant. Our covenant, my Beloved.
Joy, the emotion so elusive in my marriage to Gerard, swells within. And with it comes waves of gratitude. I linger at the table awash with love. Perfect love. I close my eyes and sway to the rhythm of an imagined chorus—the morning stars singing together and all the angels shouting for joy.
I dance in the embrace of my Beloved.
Do not think so much of yourself that you are not concerned with others.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brigitte
SHE TYPES IN the e-mail address: [email protected]. Her nails click on the keys.
Andee,
It is imperative that we meet in the next two days. Please call or e-mail with a time that works for you. We'll meet alone at my home office.
Brigitte
President—Domaine de la Bouvier
She thinks back to the dinner party she had planned. But that was before. She reaches for her calendar, counts forward three months, an appropriate time of bereavement, and chooses a date to reschedule the party. She senses Andee's desire, need even, to rub shoulders with the elite of the city.
She will see that it happens.
She will have Andee in her back pocket, as they say. But she will have to be
patient.
She pushes the calendar aside, picks up her phone, and leaves a message for Andee. The same message contained within the e-mail.
Patience isn't one of her virtues. C'est la vie.
Now that Jenna's gone for a few days, there are things she must discuss with Andee. First and foremost, the deal with Azul. Andee need not know all the specifics of her plan. Just those specifics that relate to Andee's participation in her plan. Again she smiles—thin lips stretched tight.
Her plan is in everyone's best interest, of course. Even Jenna's, if she knows what is good for her.
Jenna.
Her hand tightens on the receiver of the phone she still holds.
She thinks back to her conversation with Gerard the night he . . . It's clear the whole fiasco was Jenna's fault. If she hadn't encouraged Gerard to "acknowledge his strengths and use them," as he'd said, or given him the idea that he might step out on his own and start his own business.
"Who have you been speaking to, Gerard?"
He'd stood tall, her handsome son. "Jenna and I have talked about it and, Mother, if you're not ready to relinquish the leadership of the company, then I think it's time I pursued other ventures."
Other ventures? Ridiculous! He is . . . was . . . her son. She knew what was best for him. But no, Jenna had to stick her nose into things that didn't concern her. If she hadn't encouraged him, he wouldn't have dared argue with her, and he'd still be . . . alive.
And now? Jenna is all she has left. Fine. So be it.
She checks her e-mail to see if Andee has responded. Nothing yet. She glances at her watch and dials Andee again. She must make her understand the urgency of their meeting.
As your will is lost in God's will you still have purposes, but these purposes are God's desires within you and have nothing to do with you.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Andee
I SCROLL THROUGH my e-mail and search for the most recent www.iluminar.me post. Did I miss it? The last one in my e-mail folder is one I read, when? Over a week ago?
"What's up, Lightseeker? So I said I was done with you. You didn't let that hurt your feelings, did you?"
I click on my Internet server and type in the URL www.iluminar.me and check the blog site to see if anything new has been posted. Nothing. I click back to my e-mail folder and do a search for the e-mail exchange I had with Lightseeker last week. "Maybe you've run off to discover your life's purpose. Good luck with that." Sarcasm reverberates between my office walls.
I open a new message and type:
Lightseeker,
Dropping off the face of the earth doesn't bode well for your blog. Your readers will lose interest if you don't post consistently. From one blogger to another, take my advice and get back in the saddle before you lose your audience.
BTW, sorry I didn't respond to your last e-mail. Life gets busy, right? In answer to your question, my purpose is, of course, to secure financial freedom for myself and those I advise.
A. Bell
After my little foray into introspection during Gerard's memorial service, I came to a couple of conclusions:
First, it's time to invest in my relationship with Jason. It's a sound investment. Sure, I have feelings for him, but a choice like this must be based on something more stable than mere emotion. Jason is intelligent, dependable, trustworthy, and well connected. He's also a looker. I smile. I'm attracted to him in all the right ways. Having a partner is practical. And someday, my biological clock might begin ticking. Although, I think mine is defunct. But should that change, Jason and I would produce stunning offspring.
Second, Gerard's death led me to reconsider my spirituality—or lack thereof. While financial security is important, it isn't an ironclad guarantee against things like death. Even Brigitte couldn't control that. As I observed Brigitte, I realized one needs to insure the things one cannot control—like life. And I'm not talking about a whole-life or term policy. I'm talking eternal insurance. So, I will investigate religion again, and will begin by paying closer attention to Lightseeker's blog.
Again, a practical decision.
Which is why it's annoying that she's provided nothing new to read. I click the mouse and scroll through the blog again.
Whatever.
I'll wait for her to respond to my e-mail.
I look at the time on the upper right corner of my computer screen. Four hours since Brigitte's e-mails and phone calls. I've let her stew long enough. I will not be at her beck and call. I pick up the phone and punch in her number. I listen to her voicemail message and wait for the tone.
"Brigitte, it's Andee Bell. I'm available tomorrow after 3:00 p.m. or after 11:00 a.m. the following day. Let me know which time you prefer. You may call or e-mail me, as usual. See you soon."
Just as I hang up, my doorbell rings. The only one who rings unannounced is the building doorman, everyone else has to buzz me from the lobby. I cross the living room to the front door and open it.
"Delivery, Ms. Bell. It's heavy, may I set it somewhere for you?"
"Who's it from?"
He looks at the mailing label. "Azul Winery."
"Okay, take it to the kitchen, if you don't mind."
He heads for the kitchen, and leaves the box on the island.
"Thanks, Jack."
"No problem, Ms. Bell. I'll see myself out."
I look at the box, reach in a drawer for a knife, and slice it open. Inside, are two cases of Azul's finest. Great. Just what I need. There's also an envelope. I tear open the envelope, which reveals a thank-you card. Inside, Bill has scrawled these words:
Andee,
I appreciate your expertise and your efforts on behalf of Azul. Thank you for the meeting in Napa. I'll look forward to hearing from you.
Bill
I consider the note and how it could be interpreted, and then I tear it up. No need for anyone to come across it and link me with Bill or Azul. The wine? I stash the cases in the back of the pantry until I can figure out what to do with it.
Note to self: Don't let Jason snoop around in the pantry. It's Bill's place to reveal he's sought my advice.
I head back to my desk, where I'll work for the next hour on the information I'll present to Brigitte when we meet. She has an agenda and I assume it will include more questions regarding Azul. This time, I'll give her what she wants. That is, of course, after she's agreed to my stipulation.
Before I dive into the Azul details, I check my e-mail again. There's a response from Brigitte, we'll meet at 3:30 tomorrow afternoon. And there's a response from Lightseeker. "Ah, there you are." I open the message.
Andee,
Again, thank you for your interest in my blog and your concern. It's nice to know you missed my posts. I had a personal crisis last week that prevented my blogging, but I anticipate posting another entry soon.
Thank you, too, for your response to my question. May I ask another? How did you determine your purpose?
"Hey, I didn't say I missed your blog, I just said you're going to lose readers." I scan her e-mail again and then reread her question. So, what? Now we're pen pals? Okay, I'm game. I hit reply:
Lightseeker,
I'm sorry for your crisis, but perhaps it will lend itself to some . . .
The word juicy comes to mind, but even I know it's a bit insensitive if she's had a real crisis.
. . . profound blog entries.
I stop and think about her question. How did I determine my purpose? Uh, I grew up in utter humiliation and vowed I'd never live that way again? Duh.
Regarding purpose: My life circumstances clarified my purpose. My advice is to look at your circumstances and determine what about your situation you want to keep, and what you'd like to change. Perhaps your purpose will
reveal itself in the process.
My turn: Why are you so passionate about religion?
A. Bell
This chick isn't very self-aware. Anyone who reads her blog knows her purpose is wound up in her beliefs or her religion or whatever. But she can't see it? What's with that? I may think her purpose is hokey, but to each his own.
Then I reconsider. Okay, maybe it's not hokey. It's just . . .
Whatever.
I have work to do. I close my mail folder and turn my attention back to Azul . . . and Brigitte.
An external religion, with its rules and forms, has taken the place of an inward experience with Christ.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jenna
I SIT AT the large antique desk in the den of the chateau—the vineyard sprawling before me—my fingers on the keys of my laptop. Guilt pricks my conscience as I read Andee's e-mail. She assumes she's writing to a stranger. Her first e-mail a few weeks ago startled me. It was the first time someone I knew responded to my blog. I responded back, not giving myself time to think about it. I thought that would be the end of it.
But then she replied and her question about my purpose hit me, and I answered with the truth, almost forgetting I was responding to someone I knew. When I didn't hear back from her, I was relieved.
Today's e-mail from her caught me off guard. What could I say that was truthful but wouldn't reveal my identity? Which made me wonder again at the dichotomy of wanting to share truth but instead, hiding behind a lie. Or at least an omission. My blog is where I'm most transparent and free to be myself. Yet, I'm not myself at all. I'm anonymous.
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