The Faithful Lover

Another early one …


He had fallen in love with her the very instant he saw her, there was nothing he could do to stop it. His heart just did that kind of flip flop thing, and he went weak at the knees. Every waking moment he thought of her, everything he did was for her, she was he very reason for being.

She, however, didn’t particularly seem to care all that much about him!

He had placed a regular order at the florists – every day a dozen red roses, and something special at the weekends – and the postman had worn a rut into her path delivering the never ending supply of presents and gifts of all sizes. Everyone could see how much he cared for her, how her happiness and fulfilment was his only wish.

Everyone apart from her.

She found his constant, unchanging love and affection, frankly embarrassing and an encumbrance. How could she spend time with all her other admirers, chase after her other, more exciting suitors, with his relentless devotion always there, in the background – reminding her of the nature of selfless, continuous, never ending, never changing, unconditional love.

He got in the way! When she was out on the town, throwing herself into the party atmosphere, throwing herself at others she would catch a glimpse of him, and instead of seeing disapproval or despair she would only see him loving her, his eyes seeming to say, “You are worth so much more than this.”

When she used the affections of others – including him – for her own satisfaction and gain, and when others used her, there he would be with the same love in his eyes, the same quiet encouragement to see herself as he saw her – beautiful and precious.

Never was he impatient with her, never did he respond to her in anger, even when she disregarded him and his love totally, when she revelled in doing those things she knew he hated. When she laughed at his devotion and scorned him he still remained the same, he still loved her.

In her home was a roomful of dead and dying roses and dusty, unopened presents. In her heart was a similar room, one full of dead and dying hopes and dreams, of unopened, unfulfilled promise. She held the key to the room in her house. At any time she could open the door and open any one of the presents in there, or maybe even clear away the debris of old flowers – to make room for the new, fresh, perfect blooms that still arrived daily. Somehow, the only time she ever opened the door was to throw in the latest present, to hurl in the most recent bouquet and then to slam the door tight and lock away what he had offered her.

She locked away her heart too. The bitter hurt within there, like the long dead flowers, lay inside, slowly decaying. The unknown pains lay deep inside, still secure in their dusty boxes where they could not be seen – or healed.
One day – instead of the postman – he arrived at her door. In one hand he held a dozen, blood red roses, in the other he held a small box, beautifully wrapped. “For you,” he said as he gave them to her and stood . . . and waited . . . and waited. She looked at him, avoiding his steady, loving gaze as best she could. Caught off guard she was unsure of both herself and him.

“Open it,” he said, gesturing towards the box. For the first time she did. In the perfect box inside the beautiful wrapping were two keys, one for the room and one for her heart. “You will need help,” he said, “To clear the debris, to clean up, to open the presents and gifts. May I help you?”

She let him in.

Together they worked to clear the debris, to throw out the decayed and the rotten, replacing it with the new and the everlasting. They opened presents together and both revelled in the joy of finding them and using them well. They spent time together, he loving her, and, for the first time, she loving him.

They also cleaned out the room.


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