I left Him.
He treated me well and loved me purely and gave me an abundance of life. He kissed my face and whispered sweet everythings into my stubborn ears. There was nothing He wouldn’t sacrifice for the sake of my soul.
Yet, I still left Him.
He loved me so well, and it made the frayed strings of my heart that struggle to know consistency uncomfortable. He gave grace where I deserved none, and I felt unworthy. He came close, and my feet quickly backed away. I tried to warn Him. “My hands are dirty, my heart impure. You have brought me out of the miry clay, but its familiarity is begging that I lay back down in it.” Still, He came closer. And closer. And closer. So, like the faithless lover that I am, I ran.
You see, I am the harlot that is spoken of in Hosea. I am the cheating wife of a good Man that has always provided well for me. I am the wanderer in the desert, seeking any kind of relief for my restless heart. Don’t give me steadfast, because my heart is anything but. Give me temporary. Give me fleeting. Give this unfaithful woman a drink of your confusion, for she cannot tell the difference between that and what she really needs.
Many arms opened wide for me. Different lovers waited on the street corner, and I approached them with a heart hungry for the love that I left. Their promises were empty, but so was I. A match made in heaven, it would seem. I gave everything I was away to the things of this world. My affections belonged to a boy that had no idea what to do with them. My hope rested in the strength I had convinced myself I actually had. My home was found in my wandering, which, really, was no home at all. None of it was real. None of it satisfied. Whoring myself out to the world and its idols became my twisted version of love, and I became the victim of delusion.
And then He came back for me.
The sight of Him coming towards my corner brought tears to my eyes. He approached the one who had a deadly grip on my heart with fire in His eyes, bloodied hands, and a crown of thorns upon His head. “Her,” He gasped, while pointing at me. “Whatever the cost. Her.” I shrunk back, all too aware of the tattered clothing on my back and the dirt caked onto my unfaithful feet. How does He still not understand? Doesn’t He see that I am prone to wander? That I do not know how to love or be loved? That I left? Why did He come back for His wife of harlotry?
As if on cue, my beloved spoke. “Because, are you listening? There is nothing, nothing, that can separate you from My love. You may not be faithful, but I am. You may not love well, but I do. You may feel unworthy, but I hold victory over that lie. Darling, can you hear me? You are spoken for. You are Mine. You do not have to be a slave to false gods any longer. By the grace found in this blood that drips from My body, you can be a bride that stays and loves and walks in truth. I have paid the highest price for you. Come home. Please, my dear. Come home to Me.”
I am the wife of harlotry. I am prone to wander. I am unfaithful and inconsistent. But, more than all of those things, I am His. When I run, He will come after me. Every time. When I attempt to sell my soul to the things of this world, He will come running, reminding me that He has already paid the highest price. And, undeservedly, there is grace in my wandering.
Wives of harlotry, we are free to love and be loved. Wives of harlotry, we are slaves no longer. Shake off the shackles from your feet. It’s time to come home.