The Bride Who Almost Forgot
- MS
- Nov 18
- 8 min read
This is not the story of a bride preparing for a wedding. It is the story of a bride rediscovering her Bridegroom—The One who gives, protects, delights, and leads her by the hand through every mystery.
I never expected a single whisper from the Groom to send me chasing clues through chocolate-scented streets, wobbling seas, and a garden that remembered my name —but love has a way of inviting you deeper, unravelling the past, and revealing that the real mystery was never the journey at all…it was remembering I am the Bride He delights to lead.
There is a particular moment — a holy, gentle click inside the chest— when truth doesn’t just land in the mind but inhabits the heart. This blog came from that kind of moment. A whisper that said: “I am your Groom… and you are My bride.” Not as a metaphor. But as identity. And when identity shifts, the whole story bends toward clarity.
So before you walk with me through cocoa-warm rooms, lavender fields, sapphire waters, and a garden older than fear — let me gently open the door for you. This is not a story about earning love. Or proving worth. Or chasing answers. It is a story about remembering. Remembering righteousness as the warm cocoa beneath everything. Wisdom as the flavor of walking with Him. The wobble that does not drown you. The garden that speaks your name. The mirror that tells the truth. And the Groom whose delight is the atmosphere of your life.
If you’re willing, dear heart…take my hand. Let’s walk backward into the places I’ve already walked, so you can feel what I felt, see what I saw, and taste what love taught me there. Come with me now, not as a spectator but as a guest. Step through these scenes with all your senses: Smell the cocoa. Hear the sea. Feel the moss. Taste the truth. See His smile. Because this is not just my story — it’s a parable of your own: how the Groom leads, how the bride remembers, how love untangles fear, and how righteousness, wisdom, identity, and healing weave into one golden thread.
Here righteousness grounds you like warm cocoa, wisdom sweetens your steps, and Jesus shapes it all into a love story worth savoring. Let’s follow the clues together.
The Bride Who Remembered — a mystery of love, chocolate, and clues
The rain had just stopped when I stepped inside the Chocolate Clue Shop. The royal-blue door hummed a soft note behind me, the kind that feels almost… aware, as though it recognized me. Cocoa steam curled upward in warm ribbons. Copper pots simmered quietly. The air tasted like caramel and winter spice.
On the marble counter lay a familiar blue envelope, sealed with a swirl of gold. My name shimmered on the front. And beneath it: With delight — Jesus.
I felt Him beside me — not appearing, not startling — simply there, as if He’d been leaning on the counter waiting for me to notice.
He nodded at the envelope. “Ready?” He asked, with that playful grin that always feels like a sunrise smirking.
Inside was a small golden key… and a single phrase: Follow the clues.
Before the shop could fully exhale, the walls softened, the air grew warm, and suddenly lavender breathed across my skin.
We were in Provence.
The cobblestones glowed under gentle morning light. Lavender fields rippled like violet oceans. A bakery door opened, releasing scents of butter and fresh brioche. Somewhere, a violin practiced a shy little tune.
Stone houses with pale-blue shutters lined the narrow lane. Linen curtains fluttered. A hint of lemon balm rode the air, bright and green, like the scent of a memory returning home.
“Breathe,” Jesus said gently, His eyes scanning the landscape with affection. “Provence knows how to slow a heart.”
We walked together, His hands in His pockets, eyes bright with mischief — like He’d been waiting all week for this reveal.
We turned into a tiny lane where a deep-blue door stood half open. A wooden sign read: " Chocolaterie du Ciel ".
Inside, copper pots glowed like miniature suns. Chocolate flowed across a marble slab in glossy ribbons. And in the center stood a young chocolatier — quiet, poetic, moving with the reverence of someone handling sacred material.
Jesus leaned toward me, voice hushed: “Watch him.”
The chocolatier didn’t look up—not at first—he simply stirred the melted chocolate, slowly and deliberately, letting it flow like warm bronze across the marble.
“See that base?” Jesus whispered. “That’s righteousness.”
The chocolate gleamed deeper, richer, as though agreeing.
“Righteousness is the warmth beneath everything. The rich, grounding goodness you stand on. The part I give you before you ever lift a finger.”
The chocolatier added vanilla. Lavender. Sea salt. Each ingredient folding into something fuller.
“And that…” Jesus smiled, nudging me lightly. “…is wisdom. The flavor of our relationship. Every moment you walk with Me, every choice you make from peace, every choice you let Me guide — it becomes part of you.”
The chocolate hardened into a glossy sheen.
“And I,” He whispered, “am the Master Chocolatier. The One who knows how to melt, blend, temper, shape, and transform all the ingredients of your story into something unexpectedly beautiful. You are not responsible for perfect recipes. You simply bring your heart to Me, and let Me blend truth into your days, and trust that in My hands, your life becomes a creation of love worth savoring."
I tasted a piece He placed in my palm — warm, floral, sweet — and just as it melted on my tongue, the air shifted. Lavender became salt. Sunlight became sapphire. Warm stone became cool sand.
We were on the Riviera.
The Riviera: Sinking, But Not Sinking.
The sea stretched before us — bright blue, the kind that makes your eyes widen before your heart catches up. Warm wind brushed my face. The scent of salt and citrus drifted from the shoreline.
I stood on a quiet stretch of the Côte d’Azur, near a hidden cove where the Mediterranean curled in turquoise waves. Pebbles warmed by the sun pressed into my bare feet. I stepped into the water.
Cool. Silky. Alive.
Waves curled softly around my ankles. Sunlight scattered across the surface like broken mirrors.
Each sparkle felt like a question: "Can you trust love again? Can you hope again without fearing old disappointments?"
I walked a few steps deeper. The water rose gently around my ankles, swirling in soft rings. I didn’t sink. Not really. But I felt myself tilt inside — the familiar wobble of looking back, remembering moments where hope had once bruised me.
Behind me, the shoreline murmured: memories, relationships that had faded, expectations that had frayed, dreams that once promised something beautiful but softened into silence.
The water lifted around me just enough to feel it —a symbolic sinking, but not sinking like the soft gravitational pull of old assumptions.
A polished stone rolled toward me with the tide. Pale cream, smooth as skin, inscribed in thin, shimmering gold: you do not fall to the bottom, you rise when you look where love is leading.
Jesus picked up the polished stone and placed it in my hand. "You never fall to the bottom with Me,” He said gently. “Not once. Not ever.”
“You’re not sinking,” He continued. “You’re remembering the past. But wobbling isn’t failure — it’s an invitation.” He waited a beat. “Invitation to leave the past behind. Invitation to look at Me. Invitation into hope —because hope lives in the present, not in the past."
The breeze warmed. The stone glowed faintly in my palm. And the sand softened into moss. The Riviera dissolved into warm green light.
We were in the Garden.
I stood at the entrance of a walled garden that felt ancient and new at the same time. Light dripped through the leaves like honey. Lemon balm brushed against my ankles. A soft warmth rose from the ground, as though the earth remembered me the way the chocolate shop did.
Wooden signposts stood along the walkway, each one handwritten in ink that shimmered faintly when sunlight touched it. Each sign felt like touching a truth I once knew but somehow misplaced—like a childhood melody that returns without warning.
Jesus walked slowly beside me, reading the wooden signs along the path: “Looking Back Creates the Wobble.” He gave me a sideways glance. “That one hits home, doesn’t it?”
“Hope Lives Only in the Present.” He tapped the sign lightly. “I’m not borrowing your past,” He said. “Why are you?”
We reached the final archway — vines, roses, warm stone. As we stepped beneath it, He slowed His pace…not from hesitation, but from something like reverence. He paused at the last sign and looked at me with a tenderness that felt like breath against my heart. “This is the one,” He said softly. “This,” He whispered, “is where you remember who you are. The Bride Receives. The Bride Blooms in Rest.”
We walked through the arch of vines and entered a small stone room.
Inside stood a mirror made of living water. I stepped toward it.
My reflection shimmered — not broken, not striving, not trying to earn anything — but radiant, beloved, whole.
Behind me, Jesus whispered: “I am your Groom. Covering you. Protecting you. Fighting for you. Delighting in you.”
His voice warmed the very air. “And you…” He waited until I looked at Him. “…you are the Bride. Not a passive bride. Not a burdened bride. A responding bride."
He touched the frame of the water-mirror. “You receive. You yield. You trust. You follow joyfully. You let yourself be delighted in. You bloom in rest.”
The mirror brightened. My reflection glowed. And everything made sense.
Righteousness was the chocolate base beneath my life. Wisdom was the flavor of our relationship. My cells listened to love. The wobble did not drown me. And the bride —oh, the bride —remembered the Groom who had been delighting in her all along.
Back to the Chocolate Clue Shop
The moment my foot touched the wood floor, the familiar cocoa scent wrapped around me again. The royal-blue door hummed with rain outside. The copper pots steamed like old friends waiting to hear how the case ended.
I laid the clues on the marble counter: the chocolate, the polished stone from the shore, a single rose petal from the Garden, and the tiny golden key. The blue envelope rested open beside them.
The case file closed with a soft whisper from somewhere deep within me: “I was never the bride who forgot. I was the bride who remembered.”
Warmth rose in my heart—not the warmth of discovery, but the warmth of finally coming home to myself. And as the chocolate-scented air settled around me, I realized something quietly magnificent: This was not a mystery to solve. It was a love story unfolding —one brushstroke at a time.
He placed His hand over mine. Warm. Sure. Present. And whispered: “Now… go live like the bride who remembers.”
Whispers to the Heart
You don’t wobble because you’re weak — you wobble because you’re not remembering where to look. The warmth beneath your life is not earned — it is given. Beloved bride, you bloom most beautifully when you rest in His delight.
Reflection from the Shop
Which scene — the Chocolatier, the sea, or the Garden — stirred something in you today?
Where have you been wobbling… and what invitation might be hidden inside it?
How does it change your heart to imagine yourself as the bride He delights to lead?
Isaiah 62:5 “As a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so your God rejoices over you.”
Psalm 94:18–19 “When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ Your unfailing love supported me.”
Isaiah 32:17 “The work of righteousness will be peace, and its effect quietness and confidence forever.”
