I remember once sitting in a car with my girlfriend at the time. All of a sudden, I got very annoyed. I'm not even sure what bugged me. But at the time, I decided it was her. I was bored and irritated—and I jumped to the conclusion it was her fault. I began to wonder right then whether I even wanted to be in this relationship. All because of a slight fluttering of negative emotion.
The thing is, this wasn't like a second or third date. This wasn't merely a dating potential I was considering. We'd been a couple for a while. I cared for her deeply. She was encouraging and challenging, attractive and brilliant, fun and sincere. She was passionate about the Lord and her job. We'd had instant chemistry: Not only did we feel at home with each other on the first date and discovered many common interests, but we quickly developed mutual respect, admiration, and trust. And we'd talked seriously and frankly about our future. In fact, I'd been praying intensely about this relationship because I was pretty sure she'd be the woman I'd eventually marry.
But even with that solid foundation—and several assurances of God's blessings—I easily became concerned about a fleeting and uncommon negative emotion. In fact, not only was this annoyance not a regular thing, I think that night may have been the first bit of irritation I'd felt while with her. But yet, my mind lent this emotion way too much credit and significance. As I stared out the window, I thought, If this were my future wife, surely I wouldn't be annoyed right now. I'd be pleased and content with her all the time! This feeling must mean something. God must be telling me there's something wrong here.
This wasn't the first relationship in which I had thoughts like this. And I knew it was dangerous. It's kind of like that old Friends episode where Chandler realizes he chronically breaks up with women for small, trivial excuses—like the fact that the woman's head is too big. His deeper problem was a fear of commitment. Mine was the opposite: I desperately wanted a commitment, but I wanted the perfect commitment.
My faulty logic was partly because I expected the Hollywood lie of the perfect romance where everything is rosy all the time. A second part of the problem was my assumption God would provide me with a wife who exactly matched all my specifications. I also expected he'd lead me to that perfect woman with huge neon signs, an easy path, and no doubts. Consequently I had silly expectations of God, the women I dated, and the feelings I'd experience when I found the "right" one. Therefore, every little thing that happened during a normal relationship—including the inevitable off moments and disagreements—sent my head spinning. I assumed every fleeting thought and emotion were signs from God. I'm bored talking to her on the phone right now? Surely, if this were my wife-to-be I'd want to talk for hours every night!
In a way, it's almost as if I was putting together a jigsaw puzzle and had one final space to fill—but many, many extra pieces in the box. Eagerly, I searched for that right piece. And instead of just trying them in the empty space, I held each one up for detailed analysis. Looking it over inch by inch, I checked the shape and size, and I tried to interpret the look, the markings, and the color—all to be sure it was indeed the one to even try in the space.
After freaking out that night, I had three important conversations. First, I told my girlfriend what was going on in my head. I believe open conversation and transparency are key to any healthy relationship. Second, I talked to my accountability partner to get the married male perspective. Third, and most importantly, I talked vulnerably with God. I realized from the three conversations that my hang-up, first and foremost, was fear. I wasn't afraid of marriage. I wasn't afraid of commitment. I was afraid I'd choose incorrectly. I was afraid I'd be wrong about the one I married. And thus, I was overly concerned about the choosing.
