I used to think marriage was some leprous condition that anybody with half a brain wouldn’t touch with a Hazmat suit and a ten-foot pole. Why would I – why would anybody – willingly walk down that dead end road? My parents’ marriage demonstrated to me that, at best, you could expect to coexist under the same roof with somebody that you disliked; if you were lucky, you could avoid speaking to one another and sharing a bed.
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Maybe my parents were hoping that I would be a little luckier in love so they practically made it their life purpose to groom me for marriage. And by “groom me for marriage,” I mean, “remind me how much I needed to, basically, not be me in order to be an attractive candidate for marriage.” Growing up, the nugget of fatherly counsel most often chucked at me was, “Nice boys don’t / won’t like that.” “That” was basically any and every thing I was and any and every thing I did. Apparently, as an eight-year old girl, I should have been deeply concerned that “girls like me” weren’t exactly hot commodities. Unfortunately for my parents, their plan backfired. First of all, I wasn’t going to waste my time primping and priming for some dude who apparently wouldn’t like me for me. Second of all, I wasn’t exactly sold on this whole marriage thing. Why lose sleep over how to put a ring on it if, on the one hand, I didn’t think the ring was worth it and, on the other, I (just as I was) wasn’t worthy of it anyway?
By the time I was thirteen, I had completely sworn off both men and marriage. My introduction to my 8th grade science class? “Hi. My name is _____. And a fun fact about me is that I don’t wanna get married. But, I wanna have kids so I’m gonna get artificially inseminated. And I only want girls. No boys. Thank you.”
My parents couldn’t understand why I was so antagonistic towards what they felt were “loving” suggestions about my appearance, attitude, and actions. After all, it was for the “loving” sake of marrying me off to a “nice boy” that they cared so much. It was out of “love” that they prodded, picked, and poked at me. It was out of “love” that they advised me how to speak, eat, smile, laugh, dress, walk, smell, style my hair, groom my eyebrows, tidy my nails, change my complexion. You name it, they had something to “advise” about it. My parents’ friends – my “uncles” and “aunties” – also felt that it was their familial (even though we weren’t even related) duty to regularly assess my market value. I won’t mention all the other folks who directly or indirectly reminded me that I came up a little short against the measuring stick. Inevitably, I became acutely aware of the same signals being broadcasted by men who embodied everything my parents told me I couldn’t have if I stayed me. I tried every possible self-defense technique (including a move clear across the country) to shut out all the voices. I really did try. Regardless, it was too late. The damage had already been done.
The soundtrack to my life started to resemble a broken record in surround sound, repeatedly reciting to me that I should want something (marriage) with someone (a “nice boy”) who didn’t want me. The longer that damn record played, the firmer my resolve became to tune out, to convince myself that I didn’t want all that jazz, anyway. I resorted to even greater lengths to make all sorts of public service announcements about my opinions and intentions on love, men and marriage. Yet, despite the spikes on my spine and the venom in my mouth, I somehow managed to get involved in a series of serious romantic relationships. You would think that, given what I had witnessed and what I believed about all this ridiculous, fluffy nonsense called “love and marriage,” I wouldn’t have bothered with the male species. You would also think that, given the huge “F@#$ Off” stamped across my forehead, the male species wouldn’t have bothered with me. Allow me to explain why the formula does not compute. What I am about to confess is terribly, pathetically cliché. But, take it or leave it, it is the plain vanilla truth. Here goes,…
I desperately wanted somebody to prove to me that everything my parents had ever demonstrated or taught me about love and marriage was wrong; that everything I had ever believed about men was a lie; that everything I had ever feared about relationships and commitment was an illusion; that everything I had ever been taught to believe about my own worth and beauty was false. Something in me refused to believe that what my parents and the rest of the world insisted I have and be was…it. Even though I wasn’t sure I had ever seen or experienced it, I had this crazy notion that Iove was meant to be something extraordinary, something beautiful, something good, something real. And no matter how hard I tried to beat my heart and my mind into submission, I just couldn’t crush that desire in me to be desired, to be loved, against all odds. This goddamn cancer – this hope - just wouldn’t die. Why wouldn’t it die?!?
The year after I gave my life to Jesus, the wonderful woman who was my discipler (that’s Christianese for “mentor” taken up one notch) invited me to pray a prayer. As soon as I heard the contents of this prayer, I knew it was the devil talking. “Get behind me Satan!” What were the contents of this dangerous prayer? Brace yourselves. “Lord, I pray that nobody except for my husband would have eyes for me. I pray that nobody except my husband would like me. I also pray that I would not like or give my heart to anybody else but my husband.” God bless my discipler. She took the hint, by my sudden inability to speak, that I had to give this one some thought. That night, locked in my room, I intended to tell God exactly what I thought about this prayer. “Dear God. Thanks, but no thanks.” But, I couldn’t do it. Instead, I found myself reluctantly reciting the prayer, even topping it off with some extra “This-Is-The-Cross-I-Must-Carry” flavored icing. I won’t lie. It felt like I was pouring cherry-flavored medicine by the bucketful down my throat. I grimaced and cringed the entire time. Only three things kept me going: 1) A vague impression that this prayer might actually be really, really, really good for me; 2) I didn’t actually want to get married anyway so, this prayer is moot; 3) The hope that God wouldn’t take my prayer seriously because, clearly, I was not being a cheerful prayer-er. That’s Biblical, right?
Maybe you, of pure heart, find absolutely nothing wrong with that prayer. After all, what is so terrible about having your sanctified heart knit together in anointed oil unity with the one with whom you are to share matrimonial bliss? Well, let me tell you what is wrong with that picture. I wouldn’t have had such a difficult time with that prayer if, say, the unwelcome desire to get married hadn’t inexplicably, stubbornly rooted itself in my heart and blossomed. I wouldn’t have had such a difficult time with that prayer if, then, one or two years later, God delivered “Mr. Right For Me.” But, ten years later – ten bloody years later – God still hasn’t delivered. I know I’m not getting any sympathy from people who have been single for most or even all of their lives. That’s ok. I don’t need sympathy; I just need a little grace. Understand that, for a young woman who had been starving and thirsting for unconditional love and affirmation all her life because she couldn’t find it in her family, she couldn’t find it in all those train wreck relationships, she couldn’t find it no matter how many men offered her those deceptively sweet apples called “attention” and “lust,” this prayer was the cold, indifferent blade that severed every source of oxygen that had kept her frail heart alive. This prayer would, figuratively, be the death of me.
For the next ten years, God proceeded to faithfully remove every single date-able guy, and every single potential source of affirmation or attention from the male species, within the Earth’s radius of me. We humans have a term for that, y’know, God. It rhymes with “sock clock.” Granted, my track record in terms of knowing how to pick ‘em was questionable, at best. If anything, Jesus probably invited me to pray that prayer because He wanted to rescue me from making a whole lot of mistakes. Big mistakes.
I confess that, for a long time – for most of the last decade, really – I was angry with God. I was angry with Him for teaching me to believe in and long for this so-called wonderful, beautiful thing called love. I was angry with Him for continually encouraging me to hope, to fight that good fight of faith. I was angry with Him for depositing in my heart that seed of desire to be married. I was angry with Him for giving me tangible examples of what marriage could actually be like between a man and a woman who truly love one another. I was angry with Him for giving me the courage to hope against hope that maybe, just maybe, a “nice boy” – a great guy, an amazing guy, in fact – might like me for me, might love me for me. I was angry with Him for taking away all my “affirmation toys.” God, you know how hungry, how thirsty, I am. You know that I already struggle with believing that I am beautiful. So, can’t I have just one? Can’t I have just one guy want me, pay a little attention to me, throw me a “compliment bone” or something? And why is it taking so damn long for me to get married?!? You put the desire in there. Why don’t you take it away if it’s not going to happen before Jesus returns?!?
One night, I decided to duke it out with God. Something had to change. Either I get my way, or He does. Or we make some sort of compromise. (Y’all already knowhow this one went down.)
Me: I wanna get married, God.
God: Why?
Me: Because,…because,….I want to be loved. I want to belong to somebody.
God: [pause]
Me: Hmm. Wait. I do want to get married but, maybe not yet. I just want to be pursued. I just want some guy – or some guys – to want me, to pay me some attention. Can’t I just have that for now? I just need something to hold me over for now.
God: Why?
Me: Because!!! Because,….[pause] Because, I want to know that I’m desirable. I want to know that I’m worth it to somebody. [pause] I want to know that I’m beautiful.
God: You already know all that. You already know that I love you, want you, desire you. You already know my thoughts, my heart, for you. You already know. What is it that you really want?
Me: [long pause] God, actually, I,….I just want to be… free.
That night, I realized that God wasn’t withholding my favorite toys from me. He wasn’t teasing and taunting me with hope. He wasn’t testing and trying my patience and my character just for the sake of the test. He wasn’t trying to wear out my spirit and my shoes by leading me around the desert and around the mountain, over and over again. That night, I realized that there was a longing, a well, that was deeper than any desire to be affirmed, pursued, or wanted. It was a desire to be free of each and every way the world had tried to define me and my worth, free of every chain and every noose that prevented me from fully accepting and believing my worth as a woman, free even of my need to be affirmed by my family and by men, free of every lie that wrapped itself around my mind and brainwashed me into believing that I had to fulfill a list of conditions in order to be deemed “beautiful” or “worthy.” It wasn’t that the desires in and of themselves were bad or wrong; it was the extent to which they characterized and controlled me, the extent to which I desperately grasped at sand and dust and sh!t – anything, really – to fill the void in my heart. And no person – not even my own family – and no man – not even a husband that is the closest things to Jesus on Earth – could ever convince me of my worth; I had to be free from that need to be convinced. That night, I finally understood what Jesus meant when, in the Bible, Paul writes: “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.” Jesus did what He did for freedom. We’re not obligated to Him, even though we owe Him everything and more for eternity. We’re not even asked to choose Him, to love Him. Freedom lets you choose – even if it’s not the best choice, even if it’s the wrong choice, even if it means that you won’t come back.
I might not have a postmodern Christian fairy tale to tell you that ends with “And Mr. & Mrs. _____rode off into the sunset and lived happily ever after.” I sometimes still struggle with remembering what my heart really wants; it’s easy to forget when everything around me is trying to convince me – in flashing neon lights and a dozen exclamation marks – otherwise. It still hurts a little when I think that my family may not like me just as I am. And, I confess, there are times I feel like I am about to throw myself at the next moderately attractive guy who looks my way. But, thank you, Jesus, for calling my bluff. Thank you, Jesus, for taking me so far out and so deep in Your waters and that I can’t swim back to my island of quicksand. Thank you, Jesus, for saving me from myself. Thank you, Jesus, for helping me to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Thank you, Jesus, for reminding me that I am beautiful because I am loved, and not the other way around. Thank you, Jesus, for putting up with my wacktastical temper tantrums. Thank you, Jesus, for loving me too much to give me what I think I want. Thank you, Jesus, for knowing me so well, and for showing me that I’m not such a bad person to get to know. Thank you, Jesus, for coming after me, for pursuing me, for faithfully “sock clocking” me. Thank you, Jesus, for giving me a drink when I was dying of thirst. Thank you, Jesus, for giving me a choice and for believing that I would choose wisely. Thank you, Jesus, for giving me a love story greater than anything I could ever create, than I could ever dare imagine. Thank you, Jesus, that I now know this story ends with “happily ever after.”
Happy Valentine’s Day.
(by darkyetlovely)
