[callout]This is a guest post by Rachel (Clare) Teague, who graciously agreed to let me share this with you.[/callout]
Dear All Concerned with My Future: Yes, I am single.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to be single for the rest of my life. It doesn’t mean I can’t “get a man.” It doesn’t mean I’m depressed and terribly lonely.
What it means is:
God, my almighty Father, wants to take me on a walk, just the two of us, for a while. He wants to shower me with the beauties of life, even those that hurt and scare me like hell itself.
He wants me to be His little girl, until I am ready to grow into someone’s wife, support, soulmate, best friend, lover, debate partner, dance partner, and all around third-biggest fan. (God and Mama Mary are numbers 1 and 2, respectively.) Continue reading “Yes, I am single.”
Thursday night, I received a call from my good friend Americo Menendez, who I’ve known since I was 11. First he was my brother’s youth minister. Then mine. And by the way he is brilliant.
That day, I had emailed Americo a dating question: How do we know that our standards are solid and not indicative of a hesitance to make the act of faith that marriage requires of us? It’s the “how far is too far” question, standards edition. An effort to reconcile having standards and faith, without using one to negate the other.
He replied. Then he called. When Americo calls (regardless of his claim not to be an expert) you take notes.
Last year, I stood at a booth at a women’s conference, selling shirts and telling visitors about the virtue of chastity. One of them — in her 50s and still single — loitered at the table until she found the words.
“This doesn’t work,” she said.
“What doesn’t work?” I asked her.
She pointed at the big, foam board replica of the cover of my book, Chastity Is For Lovers — which, then, had not yet published.
I sat at the foot of the bed with crossed arms and my mind made up while I ugly-cried: “I will never meet another guy who likes me.” I was 20 and mildly dramatic and my path — one I briefly walked with a blue-eyed, black-haired bass player — had been pulled out from under me.
By text message.
On New Year’s Day.
Single, and I didn’t want to be. Perpetually, too — I was certain. My sole shot at someday becoming a spouse had expired because a boy who smelled like smoke and wore eye liner said so. I grieved, which is natural and good. But then I threw a pity party.
The same pity party I threw when I had never dated before and worried I never would, which I also throw when I am periodically tired of how single I am, again. At the foot of the bed, I told stories to myself about my relationship status. The stories I told were a lot of things (sad, frustrating, neverending). But the stories I told weren’t true.Continue reading “What Not to Say If You’re Single”