I was talking with a fellow singleton the other day who also has one of those elusive first dates on her calendar in the coming days. In chatting over the hows and wheres, the silly and secretly delicious 16-year-old feelings, we both admitted to being scared. Scared that it won't work out—that we'll get hurt or disappointed and that it'll be another year or two before we even find ourselves back here at square one. And yet, oddly, also scared that it will work out. That this could be the beginning of the end of our singleness, the only life stage we've ever known. As much angst as I feel about it at times, this status is the only one I've ever known and there's a certain comfort in this familiarity.
Most of all I'm trying to temporarily set aside the reality that, as Christians, we aren't just looking for a good time, a one-night stand, or, at most, a live-in love interest. Rather, we're looking for a spouse. A til death do us part. I'm trying to overlook this truth right now because frankly it's a tad terrifying and immobilizing.
Instead, I'll try just to let this be a possibility. A mystery. An open door for God to usher in whatever he wills. And though I'll never breathe any of this neurosis to you before we go out next Friday, this is what's knocking around in my head as I prepare my best to let our dinner date be just that, dinner.
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