It is impossible to calculate the number of hours spent waiting, longing, hoping, and dreaming of the day when love would walk up to me and take my hand.

I have imagined many scenarios in which I find that person before whom I melt and to whom I am a hero. I have written poems of tribute to a nameless, faceless, person whom I hoped would not tarry this long. I have even, at times, put down as lost the hope that seemed so haggard.

It seems like only yesterday I wrote of that "longing like starvation" and reminded myself—and those who would listen—that "time is not my enemy and waiting is not punishment." I said this because within me beats a heart like all other hearts, trained in a world that associates doing good with reward. It seemed to me, as well as to many others, that I was doing good, and quite honestly—I wanted my reward.

The delay felt like punishment, and each day felt like extended animosity.

It seems like only yesterday that I made my confession of longing and admitted that, come what may, my life was given to the Lord who called me to Himself. It is only proper that, despite our longing and hope we keep a proper perspective on all that we do have and what is promised after all this passes away. I cannot help but share the pain and sorrow felt by each single who cannot seem to answer the questions asked by well meaning friends and family, "Why are you still single?" And it makes me wonder if they can answer with any confidence, to my liking, why they are married. 

It was in the midst of processing and writing about singleness that I encountered the one for whom my heart has longed. It seemed I had always known her—but not by name. I had always loved her—but from afar.

I was not a lost ship near the rocks rescued by a blazing lighthouse.
This is fantasy and dream, not real.

I was neither drowning in despair nor rescue from a pit.
This is fantasy and dream, not real.

Our eyes did not meet across a crowded room and the earth did not move beneath me.
This is fantasy and dream, not real.

But in tending to the heart of a dear friend whom I had adored love was birthed.
This is real, not fantasy nor dream.

The expected has arrived and she has a face with eyes that see me for me.
This is real, not fantasy nor dream.

My expected has arrived—but I did not expect her.

In many ways I feel a vindication of all I have written. I have waited—though not perfect in my patience. I have trusted, though often plagued by doubts. I have acted, though sometimes foolishly. In all this what I did best was love and love a friend well. Not necessarily a perfect formula for finding a mate—not a formula at all.

I believe, without getting mystical, that much of the why is a mystery. I do not accept "credit" for our coming together and yet, had I been less of a man, less Godly, less confident in the Lord—things would have been different. I cannot possibly understand all the reasons we are together but there were some clues I do think are worth sharing.