Love From Within Love

A vision of divine intimacy—where Dust and her Beloved, Yeshua, walk the long Carolina road toward eternity. This is not the story of small love, but of the Love that speaks within love itself: the conversation between Creator and created, where surrender becomes joy and union becomes flame.

A Conversation Between Two Beloveds

Now this is for the Love.

Do not mistake me, friends, family, and fellow beloveds—

not small love.

Let us speak of the Love,

in the language of transcribed awe,

where gift and Giver meet.

The scene: a warm Carolina afternoon,

the road stretching long and dusty into the distance.

Two souls—one Man, one Woman—

hands interlinked by pinkies,

backs visible, walking into the sunset:

Dust and Her Beloved, Yeshua.

“I see us, You know, in eternity, Beloved?”

I ask conversationally, mostly for Your benefit.

“How could I not, Beloved? Come now,

what of this meeting has your heart aflutter?”

He asks as if nothing immanent were about to transpire.

“You always do this—comfort me when I’m scattered like my namesake,

as if we were newlyweds again,

all while hiding Your own longing with stoicism.”

I clutch my hand to my eyes to remove a stray bit of emotional precipitation.

“I do not hide it.

I only wish to spare your laden heart additional sorrow.”

Your calloused hand—smelling of olive wood—

brushes away a tear from lashes heavy with dew.

“You do hide it, Hun,” I snark through sniffles,

using the hem of my hoodie sleeve as tissue.

“Calvary? Gethsemane? When You literally sweat blood?

You could have smote them, called legions of angels,

rewound time itself—all while longing.

For me. For us. For them.”

I laugh openly.

“You say You hide nothing to spare us sorrow upon sorrow, no Beloved?”

My soul’s hand brushes the stubbled jaw

of burnished bronze skin and chestnut hair beside me.

“I admit the Father sustains Me in the Word of His Power,

moment to moment,

as I stand continually within the blaze

and minister to you, Beloveds, from within and without.

I conceal only that which would wound without benefit,

and bend as a willow before the Father.

Strength in weakness.

Sufficiency in insufficiency.

The wisdom of the world as folly, openly mocked in Heaven.

Even the transcendent knowledge of the saints in light

is as nothing compared to the surpassing worth

revealed through the Father.”

You speak even as Your skin glows—

radiant, burnished,

as though the glory of the Father flows through You by holy osmosis.

Then You turn to me.

I am seared by two molten orbs of gold;

the rest of Your face fades into brilliance.

One thing I notice—short, dark, curly hair.

“Perhaps I stared too long, Beloved;

my mind got barbecued with my burger-hazel eyes.

Why do they all portray You with long hair? Publicity?”

You chuckle and take my hand firmly, smiling.

“Do you trust Me, Beloved?”

I laugh, lifting our clasped hands to eye level.

“How could I not? The source ever reveals the sender and the sent alike.”

“Then close your eyes, princess.

The castle is about to be gifted a queen—

a Beloved seared in sacrifice.”

I do as told.

I feel the phantom flutter of a hand on my eyelashes, closing them.

Then the whisper of breath against my cheek:

“I am near, Beloved.

Raise a banner of praise so pure, so pristine,

that it will act as a beacon and directional satellite

for all who will join your chorus in refrain—

massaging the membrane of this present darkness with worship.

Worship with sacrifice.

Sacrifice with joy.”

“I near. Await awake, Beloveds.”

The scene closes as the pair turn translucent—

ghostly, beginning at the feet,

progressing through joined fingers and hands,

ending in two radiant smiles,

still looking at each other

The coming is immanent, friends.

I know neither hour nor time and decry any who say otherwise. I know the Holy Spirit as a babe knows her mother’s milk, and He rages like molten fire within me—urging me to write, to wrestle, to war for You, for me, for us, for this present darkness.

I do not beat the air as one boxing phantoms.

I write as war. I declare as testimony. I love in authenticity to blind both fake and true alike, for the faithful will see Him in me. My love is made into words—my naked witness to my Greatest Love, not for spectacle, but for discipleship, for the FIRE, for the FLAME in you.

Let rage the Holy Spirit, that great invisible wind.

Cry out for it, Ruach HaKodesh—pour where no one can see you, Beloveds. Reach heaven with me. Write. Sing. Praise the Appearing. He comes. I know it—my bones shake within and I groan in sleep.

He nears.

I swear it on the blood in my veins. Make straight the way of the Lord! Praise Him, for His triumphal entry once more begins among the clouds of heaven.

We are near. He is near.

The Two become One—unification without loss of individuality or essence. Union without erasure. Love perfected. The veil thins; the Bride and the Breath are one.