THE FIRST FLIGHT

“I’m late… I’m too late,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I stood in the doorway of His house. The door was slightly ajar, swaying gently in the breeze, as if it had been left open in a hurry—or as if it had been waiting for someone who never came. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a painful reminder of the time I had wasted. My hands clutched a small bouquet of wildflowers I had picked on the way, their petals already wilting, as if they, too, knew they were too late.

I stepped inside, my heels clicking against the marble floor, each step echoing like a hammer against my soul. The air smelled faintly of roses, their sweetness mingling with something deeper, warmer—like freshly baked bread, the kind my grandmother used to make. It was a smell that made my chest ache with longing, a smell that felt like home. But home was gone now.

The grand hall was decorated as if for a celebration. Golden streamers hung from the ceiling, catching the fading light and scattering it like shards of sunlight across the room. A banner stretched across the far wall, its words written in elegant, looping script: “The Marriage Supper.” I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I had seen those words before, on an invitation tucked into my mailbox months ago. I could still see it in my mind—thick, cream-colored paper, the edges gilded, the words embossed in gold. I had held it in my hands, turning it over and over, before tossing it onto the kitchen counter. I’ll think about it later, I had told myself.

Now, the banner hung limp, its edges frayed, as if it had been waiting for me. Waiting and waiting, until it could wait no more.

The table was set with fine china and crystal goblets, each place setting perfect, untouched. The chairs were empty, though. All of them. My stomach churned as I walked closer, my fingers brushing against the back of a chair. The plate in front of it had a name card, the letters written in a hand I recognized—strong and deliberate, yet tender. “Beloved.”

My vision blurred, and I blinked back tears, but they came anyway, hot and relentless, spilling down my cheeks. He had saved a seat for me. But I wasn’t here in time.

I sank into the chair, my legs giving way beneath me, and buried my face in my hands. The memories came then, unbidden, flooding my mind like a dam that had finally burst.

I remembered the times He had waited for me. I could almost see Him now, peering through the window, His eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of me. I could imagine Him, glancing at the door every few seconds, hoping I would walk through it. I could feel His longing, His patience, His unwavering hope that I would come.

“I’ve prepared a place for you,” He had said once, His voice soft but firm, like the gentle rumble of distant thunder. “A mansion, just for you. You’ll be treated like a queen there.”

I had laughed nervously, brushing Him off. “A mansion? Really?” I said with somewhat disbelief. He didn’t look as though what He said was true.

He had looked at me with those piercing eyes, full of love and sorrow. “You don’t believe me.” He replied

I had been too busy, too distracted. Work had consumed me—late nights at the office, chasing promotions, building a career I thought would fulfill me. My friends had told me to take my time. “You’re young,” they had said. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t rush into anything.” And then there were the other suitors—the ones who promised excitement and adventure but left me feeling emptier than before. They had all taken my attention, my time, my heart. And He had waited. Patiently. Faithfully.

He had pursued me relentlessly, even when I was harsh, even when I rejected Him. I remembered the time He had shown up at my office with a single rose, His eyes filled with hope. “I just wanted to remind you,” He had said, “that I’m still here. I’m still waiting.”

I had rolled my eyes, embarrassed by His persistence. “I’m busy,” I had snapped. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”

He had nodded, His expression unshaken. “I understand. I’ll be back.”

And He had. He had sent me letters—handwritten, heartfelt letters—telling me about the life He wanted to share with me. “You’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted,” one letter read. “Just say yes.”

I had tucked the letters into a drawer, promising myself I would read them later. But later never came.

I pulled out my phone, my hands trembling as I scrolled through the notifications I had ignored. There were so many reminders—texts, emails, voicemails—all from Him.

“I’m leaving soon,” one text read. “Don’t miss it.”

“The table is set,” another said. “Your seat is waiting.”

“I love you,” the last one read. “Come home.”

I had ignored them, out of irritation. I had silenced the notifications, tucked the phone away, and told myself I would deal with it later. But later had come and gone, and now it was too late.

I slid from the chair to the floor, my knees hitting the marble with a dull thud. The photo frame on the coffee table caught my eye, and I pulled it into my lap. It was a picture of Him with others—smiling faces, radiant and full of joy. I recognized some of them: David from accounting, who had always invited me to church; Christabel, the Barista who had slipped a Bible verse into my coffee cup; Mrs. Coker, my elderly neighbor who had prayed for me every day. They were all here. But I was not.

“Why didn’t I say yes?” I choked out, my voice breaking. The tears came then, hot and relentless, streaming down my face. I clutched the album to my chest, my body shaking with sobs.

The house seemed to echo my cries, the walls closing in around me. I thought of the times He had saved me—the car accident I had walked away from unscathed, the job I had landed when I was on the brink of despair, the nights I had cried myself to sleep only to wake up with a strange sense of peace. He had been there, always there, waiting for me to turn to Him. But I had been too blind, too stubborn, too afraid.

When my tears finally dried, I stumbled out of the house, the bouquet of wildflowers still clutched in my hand. The world outside was unrecognizable. The streets were in chaos, and cars abandoned in the middle of the road. A child’s bicycle lay on its side, the wheels still spinning. A half-eaten sandwich sat on a park bench, as if someone had vanished mid-bite.

I walked aimlessly, my mind numb. The sky was a strange shade of orange, the air thick with an unnatural stillness. I passed a church, its doors wide open. Inside, the pews were empty, hymnals scattered on the floor.

As I wandered further, I began to see others—people like me, left behind. They wandered the streets in a daze, their faces etched with confusion and despair. A man ran past me, clutching a Bible and screaming, “He’s gone! He’s gone, and we’re still here!”

I stopped in front of a newsstand, the headlines screaming in bold letters: “Millions Vanish in Global Event!” “Scientists Baffled by Mass Disappearances!” “Is This the End?” I picked up a newspaper, my hands trembling as I read the accounts of people vanishing in an instant—mothers, children, coworkers, friends. The world was in chaos, and no one could explain it.

But I knew. Deep down, I knew.

I found myself back at His house, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. The banner still hung in the hall, the words “The Marriage Supper” now burning into my soul. I fell to my knees, clutching the hem of the banner as if it could somehow bring me back to Him.

“I was supposed to be here,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I was supposed to be at the wedding.”

The truth washed over me like a tidal wave. I had been invited. I had been chosen. But I had refused.

I thought of the parable He had once told me, about the ten virgins waiting for the bridegroom. Five had been wise, their lamps filled with oil, ready for His coming. Five had been foolish, unprepared, and left outside the door. I had been one of the foolish ones, too preoccupied with the world to prepare for eternity.

Now, the door was shut. The Groom had come, and He had taken His bride to His kingdom. And I was left behind.

As I stepped out of the house for the last time, the sky darkened, and a cold wind swept through the streets. In the distance, I heard the sound of thunder, low and ominous. The world was unraveling, and I knew it was only the beginning.

I looked up at the sky, my heart heavy with regret. “I should have said yes,” I whispered.

But it was too late. The Groom was gone, and the world was left to face the consequences of its rejection.

The First Flight had gone, and I had missed it.