When I was little, I couldn’t wait to wear a wedding ring. Mom would take us in Belk or Claire’s–it didn’t matter–the diamond-look-alike would be promptly fitted to my ring finger. I’d imagine the man that would put it on my finger. I always imagined him tall, dark and handsome, if you must know. But what I really imagined was how I’d feel when I’d get the ring.
Protected for life.
Chosen out of a crowd.
One summer night at only 18, my handsome man kneeled low and put a gold ring on my finger. I remember the sand in my feet and the waves breaking just behind him with the moon hanging high. I was his.
Another summer, many moons past that one, hangs its hat tonight and the school year of our children rises with the sun in the morning. Tonight I came in from work tired with a to do list miles long. We had lunches to pack and outfits to pick out and showers to run under and hair to cut and rooms to clean.
I couldn’t help but notice the package in the foyer though. Just after dinner, before we started attacking the list, I unpacked it, knowing what was inside–a necklace I snagged for just a few dollars on a special last week. Even at that, it felt like a splurge after a Summer of 7.
I put it around my neck and looked at the leaf, perhaps off a Giving Tree, and then turned it over, “I am His”.
I am His. The phrase turned over in my mind while we cleaned and packed lunches and cut hair and picked outfits. Reminding me.
I am loved.
I asked the youngest at bed time before prayers if she’d read my necklace. She said yes and I asked, “Whose am I?” I expected her to say Daddy’s but she said Jesus and the eldest shouted God’s! from her bunk.
I am His.
It’s just a couple dollar necklace but it brings the same feelings of the ring on the beach and the imposter one in the store.
I am His. And forever will be.