The Fruit and Song of Solomon

His voice is a steady, calming rhythm in the humid church basement.

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith . . .”

He pauses, his eyes sweeping over the small circle of women, each of them nodding along like flowers in a gentle breeze. My own hands are folded in my lap, the picture of a modest wife, but my mind is a world away, in a different book entirely.

He says *love*, and I am thinking of the Song of Solomon. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.” I remember the taste of him just this morning, before the sun was even a thought. Not the chaste peck he gives me on the porch, but the deep, consuming kiss that left us both breathless against the kitchen counter, his hands tangled in my hair, my body pressed against his as if we could merge into one being.

He preaches on *joy*, and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. The joy he speaks of is a quiet, contented thing. My joy is a wild, unrestrained laughter that bubbles up when he chases me through the house, a playful hunt that ends with us tumbling onto our bed. It’s the giddy delight of unwrapping a new piece of silk lace, the promise in his eyes when he sees me wearing it. His joy is in my pleasure, and he is a devoted man.

Then he says *peace*, and I almost laugh out loud. There is no peace in the way he looks at me from across the room, a look that sets my blood on fire. There is no peace in the way he pins my wrists above my head with one of his strong hands, his other hand tracing a path down my body that makes me arch and tremble. His peace is for the world. For me, he saves the beautiful, thrilling chaos.

He moves on to *longsuffering* and *gentleness*, and my mind drifts to the way he suffers with longing when I make him wait. He is a man driven by desire, but he is utterly at my command. He will wait for hours, watching me, his patience a form of worship. And when I finally give him the softest “yes,” his gentleness vanishes, replaced by a passionate intensity that is anything but meek. He is as gentle as a lion claiming its mate.

“Meekness,” he says, his voice soft. I think of the way he kneels before me, his head bowed, not in prayer, but in reverence. His worship isn’t for the man in the pulpit; it’s for the woman in front of him. His mouth on my skin is a form of meekness, a total surrender to my body, a holy communion that leaves us both sanctified and spent.

He finishes the list. “And temperance,” he says, his gaze finally landing on me, holding for a single, charged moment. The corner of his mouth ticks up in the barest hint of a smile. Temperance. I know, and he knows, that there is no temperance waiting for us at home. Only the unbridled, glorious feast promised in the Song of Solomon, a garden where we are free to devour each other until the day breaks.