Monday, 11 July, 2016
“Write about singleness,” I hear a familiar nag, tugging at my heart. I hear it even when I don’t think about it, and it’s something I felt God nudging me about from a while back. I haven’t broke the silence, till now at least. I think it’s because I lack the strength to admit to Him how disappointed I’ve been. How it really hurts. How it doesn’t just stop at longing, but that longing leads to wondering, and sometimes wondering leads to wandering.
For the longest time I medicated away the ache. I kept a busy schedule where I’m booked with appointments two weeks in advance. I’d slap Bible verses like plasters all over the gaping wound, reciting over and over “He makes all things beautiful in His time,” but not really believing what I’m repeating.
“Write about how you’re wrestling through singleness.” The nagging and tugging grows and especially so at a time like now, with mellow Spotify music pressed into my ears and my fingers pressed into my keyboard, ready to type a blog post of cathartic worth. You see, words help my soul like music does.
Singleness has been the most conspicuous piece of my heart that I proverbially wear on my sleeve, and will continue to wear for a long time. May* continue to wear. I must write hope into my choice of words, right?
I’ve started many unfinished drafts of blog posts to finally write about singleness, my singleness. A friend from junior college is in a funk, like me too, and I’m supposed to meet her in an hour. So, I’ve got to hustle on this post before it’s left in the draft folder, again. Perhaps the deadline means I’ll really finish this today. I get the feeling that this marks the first and not the last of the singleness-type posts. But how to open up about it? As conspicuously as I wear the armband of singleness, the underside of the same armband spells “shame.”
Shame. Ashamed that I can’t seem to meet Mr We’ll Get Married and I’ve only ever been with three types of men in my love life. Their names are Almost, Never Again and What If.
We went out one-to-one a couple of times. See how I hesitate to call it dating? It was like dating, but better I call the spade a spoon. We both live in the west, but I take classes far in the east. When he traveled down to accompany me studying at my school library, I knew we were going somewhere. I drew a doodle on his notepad. We texted everyday. He asked me what I was looking for in a partner. He said I was looking for Jesus, and he wasn’t being sarcastic. I wrote an arbitrary “lol” back so that my disappointment could go undisclosed as we carried on with conversations into days, weeks, months. We confided in each other when we felt down. I met his family, he met my dad. He took me to a nice garden to talk about things that were bothering me once, and that moment goes down in my books as one of the nicest, kindest, sweetest things a man has ever done for me. We were almost happening, and then we didn’t happen anymore.
You know how flash floods work in deserts? It’s dry for a very long time and the soil gets so hard and compacted that it’s not permeable, that when a sudden heavy rain comes, there is so much surface runoff that the water moves with great force. And then, as quickly as it came, it is gone, having destroyed everything in its wake, leaving a trail of utter chaos and debris behind.
I met someone like that, like a flash flood. We jumped into the relationship having barely known each other long enough. He was a critic and a perfectionist. I saw possibilities in our future, he saw problems. I ached to be a person he loved, not a problem to be fixed. I was the idealist, he was the pessimist. It was such a long-drawn tug of war. When we were finally no longer in each others’ lives, I told myself never again will I allow this guy any more heart space, and never again will I date someone like this guy.
What if I dropped him more hints? What if I had just been a little bolder to try and catch his attention? What if he actually likes me, but is just really shy? What if he was just waiting for an opportunity and I’m being too impatient? What if he’s just not that into me? What if I’m thinking too much?
The what ifs I meet are embarrassing to talk about, because they’re the kind I get all moony around, always within reach but yet so out of my league. They’re the awesome human beings whom my friends, with ever so best of intentions, recommend that I consider and then I wait, and wait, and wait… and nothing ever happens.
Like this one guy I got to know. He’s compassionate and courageous, adventurous and fun-loving but also serious and perceptive, intelligent yet humble, witty yet kind, yet -sigh- he remains only as Mr What If.
. . .
What’s a girl to do? I want to learn to wait well. Lesson number one: learn to trust again that God really does make all things beautiful in His time.