The Blessing of Ignorance

Her richly-colored burgandy dress dips daringly low in front, quite a contrast to its more than modest skirt, whose yards of fabric brush wide across the floor, revealing not even a daintily slippered foot. She dances coyly toward him, then away, circling to the lute and lyre with intricate steps. Later, in deserted hallways, round marble columns, she entices him with her words, teases him with her shy glances, all the while insisting on chastity.

Her game works. Even in his dreams, he burns with lust for her, forsaking all in pursuit of his prey. No matter that he is a married man with a daughter. He is king.

For the past week as my last hurrah before the death of summer, I've been madly crocheting an afghan while watching episode after episode of The Tudors. My husband found the past four seasons available online for free. Since they play on my computer, I can easily point and click past the scenes I disapprove of or just don't want to see. Torture, beheadings, sex...click, click, click.

Historical fiction is my love. I blame it on my college English History teacher who stoked the fires of interest in me for all things concerning early British history, Henry VIII, Elizabeth I, and the Victorian era. But whereas in the past, I've merely read books about their lives, now I'm watching, living those lives.

After fifteen episodes, I'm finding it difficult to watch unfold before my eyes a love affair, a break from the Catholic church, and a dissolution of a first marriage. It's surprised me that the watching is more emotional than the reading. In fact, it's downright depressing.

The problem? I know what is coming.

It is painful to watch a woman try and keep her husband when I know all her efforts, her expressions of love, her prayers are futile. Even the blossoming of love between the king and his second wife isn't fulfilling when I know it's mere hours on screen before he will command that her head leave her body.

But in His infinite wisdom, God has revealed to me one thing--His goodness in not telling me everything about my future.

I'm a "want to know" woman. There have been several instances in my life where I've told God, "If you had only told me what would happen, I would have...."

Now, I'm not so sure.

What If I couldn't prevent the outcome from changing? What if I had to live, counting down days, hours till those events that would leave me broken, even if for just a little while?

I'm starting to understand the blessing of ignorance. There's good in the knowing sometimes. And yet there's good in the not knowing, too.