In What Ought To Be A Dream

After a solid year of wondering, puzzling and vaporous attempts at interpretation, I decided it was honest appraisal time, and after a thorough review, I somberly said to myself: this isn’t what I thought it was.

My Self replied: You’ve no substantial reason to suspect anything other.

She really can be quite contrary. Just the same, my next steps became clear: cease and desist. And don’t expect any push-back. Or push-forward, for that matter. An end to expectations, period.

As they say, it is what it is.

For a day, maybe three, I was sad. How, with so little fanfare, does this parade come to an end? I can’t have been the only sponsor. And then, early winter’s days turned to evenings in spring and I found myself in the April Gulf, all sun, sand and bleach-blowing wind. And the truth caught up with me, ringing bold and clear.

Out of sight, out of mind.

At midnight, I stood ankle-deep in chilly waves, gasped at stars and felt an inkling of what I believe will beat within all of our hearts when the ‘is’ is finally made clear, when all questions are answered and all things bright and beautiful finally bear brilliant fruit. Only now, I mourned having spent so many days tied to a thing that had vanished from my heart so easily, without so much as a whimpering hint of a fight. And words that had seemed so sincere from my mouth and to my ears ceased to voice any intention – hidden, mistaken or otherwise.

As the summer began to unfurl, I settled into one of the most contented spaces I’ve found in some time. Then a seemingly harmless hello became a knock at the door and before I knew it, the apple cart was tipping, threatening an upset of epic proportions. I might could’ve joined the circus with the ensuing balancing act – all at once comic, tragic, awkward and strange – until finally, I landed, flat feet on the ground, heaving chest with heavy breath, thinking: whew. Didn’t see that one coming.

Still I hastened to answer, and in my haste, fumbled. And while part of me naturally inclines to feel disgrace, the greater part testifies of grace, protection, contentedness, and beauty. To darling friends who are sent at a moment’s notice to remind me of ease, laughter and the present hour’s joy. Whose tiniest actions urge me to remember my worth and the danger of entering into any contract where it is questioned.

As with so many young single Christian women, for days on end I've been encouraged to be available but not too available, willing but not desperate; to not wear that ring on this finger, and memorize the fine, fine line between feminine frailty and offensive strength because really, in the end, men are such simple creatures who need just the slightest hint of encouragement, dear, and you wouldn't want to miss out on THE opportunity, now would you?

Even when I was younger, I didn't care for the ambiguity game. See, I'm fettered to One whose intentions were established before the foundation of the world, whose promises cannot fail, whose Word can be fully trusted. One who chased me down to show His love for me. That chase is and has been my gold standard. For as long as I've imagined my life falling into the frame of the bridal portrait, I've imagined a holy pursuit. Never once have I enjoyed dancing to the melody of mixed signals. I confidently assert that I never will.

My God is so very, very big. He owns - made - controls the cosmos. I trust that His purposes, whatever they may be, will be realized in my life, without any help from my frantic second-guesses and wildly unsuccessful attempts at being the perfectly balanced image of all womanhood. So, I give. I breathe. I sigh. And I get back to life, most gratefully.