She laughs with the lightning strikes, swiftly dancing between raindrops and hair torn loose in a gale of golden streaks in the storm. Her eyes flash with Joy as the world strives and exhausts itself in tidal assaults, again and again daring to bring her to her knees.
She is the Queen of herself, she has studied and steadied and built a bulwark around herself make of bricks of truth. Truth of who she is, truth of who she serves and who she follows and truth of whom she Loves.
She shall not be shaken, nor shall she be threshed into grain by the tossers of chaff, the winnowers of the soul who make to craft her into demure dimness. The steps of her swift feet are alight and her sight is keen, honed towards her task and her purpose.
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The young girl strove and struck and flashed and bared her teeth. She lashed and kicked against who she detested to be, who she thought she was press-molded to become.
Her passions: Boundless.
Her fury: Unnamed and barbed in all directions.
The sword: drawn and the cuts were deep, she made war with no banner other than her heart and all were foes, all were deadly foes.
But softly, soft and surely there was a deeper current that she stepped into, gave herself up to. Laid down in with wide eyes and piercing; rapid breath labored less as the water pulled her to the deepest truth. The childhood rent away became a reminder that her child to girl to woman cocooning was always in the palm of her God and her King. The current pulled, and she did not swim up it, though all of heaven knows she would have bested it.
Minute, moment, week and year; she gave the untamed to the Sure Hand and her sword and bow to the King. He drew and draws her close and closer, knowing the very basement of her fears, doubts, disbeliefs, danger and destruction and pleases himself to regift her with the Steadfast assuredness, clarify and purity of knowing that she can defend those she loves with a danger derived from Him.
Like the scales from disciples eye, her armor chinks loosened and pried themselves from her chest, dripping like the early springtime snow from her chest. The surety salved her heart. The armor broke and decayed yet the shield over her strengthened.
Through soft degrees, imperfectly and with stumbling. She masters herself through the wisdoms of His Hand.
Passion still rages, as every good passion must. Across the grasslands in a fearsome wild scream of exultation. The mane of which cannot be set in ink, and it be blasphemy to try.
The armor is still iron-clad, yet set firmly around her kin and the newborn who nuzzles the deep into her neck to seek peace.
The sword is still sharp, and it is drawn in righteous wrath. Yet sheathed beneath the Crown in times of peace.
There is none like her, I hold to this as one of the Foundational truths. She holds the steeds of her heart in firm reins. She rises before the dawn to make it unmistakeable that no opportunity goes unreaped. Her gaze is pure and piercing. She laughs with such mirth that there are none who would not come to her table. All who know her Love her. All who are truly known by her are truly loved by her.
I take small credit for your Journey. Yet it is unspeakable how proud I am to be your Husband.
