Whoever has the key to the heart . . .

When I was about 13 or 14, my dad bought a ring.  A ring with a heart.  A ring to wear on my left hand reserving the place for another ring which would be placed on my hand by a man, a real man who would have won my love.  He also bought a key.  The key has a heart shape upon the top.  This key is the key to the heart I wear on my finger.  One day, a man will come, I believe.  He will come and he will ask the bold question of whether he might have this heart which my dad has so long and carefully protected.  An audacious question, yet one that God gives men the ability to ask and gives fathers the ability to grant.  Upon the day when there stands in front of a small crowd a pastor and this same man, my dad will take me, walk up to this man and there give the key to my heart to him.  The key will pass from one hand to another, my allegiance will have to change and there I will be vowed to serve this man the rest of my days.