One date. Just one itsy-bitsy date (and I'm not referring to the fruit). You know that thing when the guy picks up the girl and takes her out to dinner; that's the kind of date I'm talking about. That's all I wanted—or, rather, thought I needed.
So, I prayed. For a date that is. Not intense, on-my-face type of prayer, but we (God and I) did discuss my need/want of a date on a somewhat regular basis.
I truly believed that producing a date wasn't a huge task for the Creator of all life. Surely, I surmised, this wasn't a big deal for God. Or so my line of reasoning believed, and I had the theology to back it up. If God is really the all-powerful Creator of the universe, then it would seem that conjuring up one eligible male prospect wouldn't be all that difficult.
After all, God did speak the world into existence, right?
He does own everything, right?
He does sustain the universe by His awesome power, right?
So how hard could it be for Him to produce one eligible member of the opposite sex? Not too difficult, I would assume. It's not like I'm asking for world peace … just dinner.
Yet for nine whole months I didn't even meet one guy that I would have coffee with, much less a full meal. This was a dating desert with no oasis in sight.
So, why did I need a date, you ask? Pride.
I'm not ashamed to admit it. Plain, simple, run-of-the-mill, rhymes-with-tide kind of pride. I guess you could say I wanted to save some face. I, too, wanted to walk away from my last relationship and act like nothing ever happened. It wasn't fair. I, too, wanted someone else to numb the ache … to fill the void. I so badly wanted to escape the pain of a breakup with the ease of meeting someone new. I really thought a new guy was the solution to my problem.
But I didn't get to escape the pain so easily. I was alone and facing yet another wedding season, class reunion, baby showers, and summer of family picnics—solo. Like I said, it didn't seem fair; I wanted to have someone as my "plus one" for these can't-go-alone events.
But I didn't.
Since the breakup (or what my friends now refer to as "the incident"), my ex-boyfriend successfully met, dated, got engaged to, and married someone else in the span of the eight short months since we said good-bye. (It is truly mind-blowing the speed at which some people are able to move on.) Yet, there I was, still trying to eat normal food again while he was picking out a groom's cake. What's up with that?
I'll be honest. Perhaps I viewed moving on like a competition. And if that's the case, then he was winning gold in the Olympics, and I was auditioning for the middle school track-and-field team. It just didn't seem fair.
As you can see, my pride desperately needed a date.
But it didn't get one … . No escape hatch.
Here's the thing: I thought my ex was "the one." I thought I was in love. Cupid hit me square between the eyes before I had time to duck. It seemed like this relationship dropped in my life out of nowhere, and after some initial resistance on my part, I finally let go, taking a free fall into my worst fear—being close enough to someone that he could actually hurt me. And guess what, he did.
Bad.
It wasn't his fault, really. Clearly, God had different paths for us. I know this to be true today, and I rejoice. In retrospect, I can say with full conviction that although we were part of one another's journeys only for a season, it was for a grand purpose. But back then, in the midst of long walks and laughing till our sides ached, my silly heart didn't get that memo. My heart didn't know it wasn't for keeps … so my heart went for it. It plunged.
I'm the type of girl who throws herself 125 percent into something. Lukewarm is not in my vocabulary. Full throttle. Hold nothing back. Give it all. And I did. I gave my heart.
