I’d be lying if I said that I’m not thinking about meeting the man I will marry every time I walk into an unfamiliar room.Or that whenever a love song comes on the radio, that I’m not thinking about dancing our wedding night away- hands interlocked, bodies close. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my heart breaks a little bit every time someone else changes their Facebook status to “In a relationship”. Or that for every friend and acquaintance whose boyfriend slips a ring on their finger, my pit of singleness grows a little deeper, a little darker. I’d be lying if I said that I don’t mind being single. You could call me a big, (don’t you dare call me fat!) liar to ,my face and I’d blush and get all frazzled because I’d know you’re right. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t read 1 Corinthians 7 over and over and over and over and over hoping that maybe this is the time that It would hit me that my singleness if a gift.
Have you ever noticed that all of the people who say that aren’t single? Yeah. Dumb. Maybe hind sight is 20/20 on this one but I have a hard time buying it. And I don’t mean buying it like “I’d really hate to spend $50 on this pair of shoes” I mean that I have a heck of a hard time believing it.
If it is such a gift, why am I (and every other person) dying to get rid of it? If it’s such a gift, why does it seem like I’m the only one opening it? If this is such a gift, why does it seem like the church’s unwritten doctrine that there is no hope for a single person over the age of 19?
What is wrong with us? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I see it? Feel it? Believe it? SOMETHING! I’m almost as desperate for acceptance as I am for a way out.
I’d be lying if I said that I have a single valid drop of relationship advice. Or that I’ve ever had a real relationship…unless a camp romance at age 15 counts for something. Then I’ve had a total of…one. I’d be lying if I said that I don’t feel lonely around all couples or like I’m incomplete, insufficient, or somehow subhuman in my singleness. Most of all, I’d be lying if I said that I don’t feel like I’m single because there’s something terribly wrong with me. I don’t just mean a stupid, quirky habit or an annoying laugh. I mean a deep-down, gut-wrenching, would-you-take-a-look-at-that-sideshow-act sort of way.
I’m never going to be tall enough or trendy enough. I’ll always be too fat, too fearful, too dependent on others, too poor, too eccentric, too mediocre for anyone to find me extravagant, lovely, endearing, compatible, or dateable.
I’m too afraid to believe in my singleness as a gift. That would make it real, inevitable, somehow eternal. This struggle is something that God is continually trying to take hold of yet I won’t let Him touch it, get His human-forming, continent-creating hands on it. It simultaneously feels like the stupidest thing in the world and the single most important. This is not a cry for help. This is not an invitation to a pity party. This is me spilling my heart.
God is not a war criminal. He does not delight in our lonely tears. He does not intend for us to live in loneliness, instead He desires that we be drawn to sit closely beside Him, hold tightly to His hand, and allow Him to carry us over the thresholds of our lives.
I’ll make a promise tonight which I’ll more than likely break before dawn to wait it out to trust His perfection, to let