Don’t worry. Just wait. It’ll happen.
Fantastic advice, Mom, I think with more than a little derision. By the sheer fact that I am alive and able to half-listen to her endless clichés it is quite obvious that she no longer needs divine intervention on the matter of marriage. Well, I do (no joke intended).
At the ripe old age of 25 (so near now to the dreaded 3-0 and certain old-maid-hood that I can spit on it) I am convinced that if I have to smile for the camera even one more time while pinched into some hideous dress and shoes to match it might just send me over the proverbial edge. I’ll have to force myself to play nice and not send the bride and groom swimming in their own chocolate fountain during the chicken dance.
Of course I exaggerate. I’ve been a bridesmaid only four times—for each of my four dearest girlfriends, whom I would never push around on their special day, of course, but it is sort of morbidly funny to think about. And since I have no sisters there is now little chance that I will be put in a situation requiring that kind of moral fortitude again. Not to mention that there now seems to be a dearth of that terrible fuschia-colored satin in the tri-state region since my friend Sasha’s over-the-top, ten-attendants-on-each-side, just-bit-extreme wedding last spring. Thank goodness THAT humiliating phase of my life is over.
But now it should be my turn, right, Lord? I’m ready right now for some hand-holding and snuggling and whispered secrets for my beloved and causing that cringe on my friends’ faces when we publicly display our affection. And by ‘right now’, I mean ‘right now’!
I’ve done it all by the book: no hanging out with the wrong crowd, no playing loose and fast with the wrong kind of guys, dating mostly in groups, meeting guys in church, letting my dates know the limits and sticking to them. So why hasn’t Mr. Right or Prince Charming or even (let’s admit it at this point) Mr. Clean shown up at my door? When do I get my just due?
Okay, God, I know it’s more than a little rude to make such demands of the Almighty, but You and I have always had an open and honest relationship. You know me. I’m a little sarcastic (okay, maybe more than a little) and I take things to wild extremes sometimes, but I mean, really. I’m 25! Throw me a bone, here! Please! I’m certain You’re familiar with the concept of a ‘biological clock’—of course You are—so I don’t have to tell you that I may not have too many good years left in me. I’m on a schedule here—
Suddenly I was stopped mid-tirade with these words spoken right to the core of my spirit: Hush, child. I know your schedule better than you do. I set in motion that biological clock you think you understand so well. Trust me. Your time will come. I have someone so very special picked out just for you, but neither of you is ready quite yet. Let me do my job, but promise me that you never stop coming to me with what you want. I love you so dearly and want to give you everything your heart desires, but you need to let me work at my pace. It’s for your own good, you know.
At that last line I can almost see the cosmic eyebrow raised over one eternal eye and I laugh. Out loud. Of course He would be right. Isn’t He always?
So in that moment I surrender. I promise to be more patient. I promise to not let my desire turn into desperation, obsession or lack of faith. I promise to work on becoming the best me I can during the solitude of these moments in my life.
But I can’t completely promise that I won’t pounce like an alley cat on the next eligible bachelor who dares to show his face in the Thursday night singles Bible study.
Oh boy. Heaven help him.
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