I have done a great disservice to my husband. And I’ve never even met him.
In high school, I was determined that the man I kissed was going to be the man I married. As in my first kiss was going to be in front of family and friends after saying “I do.”
When I was a teenager, I lived on a cloud of judgmental oblivion. I read too many Christian romance novels, and based my inexperience on fictional characters. If the protagonist of said novel developed feelings for the wrong person, and then realized his/her mistake and ended up fighting for the right person – usually ending in a declaration of love sealed by a kiss on THE VERY LAST PAGE – I would think to myself I’m going to skip the rising action, climax, and falling action regarding the plot of my love life, and hit the exposition on point, followed by the resolution with a resounding HAPPILY EVER AFTER (and a standing ovation from the crowd – with doves in the background – and a string quartet – definitely a string quartet).
I wouldn’t say I was emotionally unstable as a child, but I empathized HARD with the characters in each story, so I began to abhor the feeling of regret, which is why I decided I would not date in high school. The odds of marrying a high school sweetheart were slim to none, so I bet on my four years at university. And I was happy to remove myself from the dating pool because I was surrounded by girlfriends who loved and supported one another, and aside from a couple of outliers (Amanda *cough* Aemelia), we were all undeniably single.
Much to my surprise, I graduated in December of 2012 with a BA in English instead of an MRS in Husbandry. In fact, I hadn’t really dated in the 3 1/2 years as an undergraduate, and I left Iowa State the way I had come – single. Honestly, I assumed I would begin dating the day I graduated from high school in 2009. But even alone at 21, I was generally happy with having boy friends instead of boyfriends. I was committed to a campus ministry, and I never lacked quality company. Like high school, I was surrounded by good people. Of course we talked about boys when we had sleepovers in each other’s dorm rooms. My girlfriends and I dreamed of meeting Mr. Right.
Or Mr. Darcy, in my case. Can I get an AMEN from my Pride and Prejudice fans?
And some of us eventually did. And some of us are still waiting.
My sister (also single – and a BABE gentlemen) and I have begun using the term “husband privileges.” And it’s perfect. It allows us to identify the things we do or don’t do that should be reserved for our husbands. (Which we don’t have.) But it gives us an opportunity to consider our futures with the men who choose us. And because my husband will choose me in the future, I’m choosing him in the present.
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I felt convicted the first time I kissed a boy. On the cheek. It was in the 5th grade, and we were surrounded by our 20+ classmates (I grew up in a small town), and I closed my eyes and went for it in the band room. With the adrenaline and the noise and the inability to see, I don’t know if my lips even landed on his cheek. But my teacher heard about it later that day, and she pulled me aside and asked if I had kicked Andrew. A classmate was trying to cover her slip up, and kicked sounded like kissed, so she went with it. The thing is, I ADORED this teacher and her opinion meant the world to me, so I told her that my classmate was mistaken – I had kissed Andrew. I was blushing like mad, and she told me that that kind of behavior was not allowed in school. I almost died. Her disappointment killed me. I went out into the hallway and broke down. Ugly crying for days. I couldn’t handle the shame. (Please understand that this happened 15 years ago, and I still remember every detail because TRAUMA.) My teacher hugged me and told me it was alright. I don’t think she expected an emotional breakdown.
My family and I headed to Iowa the next day because our dad was already in Pella setting up our home, and we would eventually be joining him that following summer of 2002. The shame I felt covered me. I had a panic attack in the shower the first night we were there. I was laying by my favorite cousin trying to fall asleep, and I didn’t want to feel the terrible guilt, so I prayed to God that he would remove those feelings and give me peace. And *snaps fingers* He did. Just like that. The relief I felt was tangible. I was ridiculous, but that led me to a place of surrender and whenever I doubt God’s existence, I remember that night. And He again becomes so real to me. People were praying for bigger things than I was in that moment, but God still chose to look down and see His daughter drowning in her hurt and shame, and He loved her by putting his hand on her heart and giving her the peace she was longing for. I love how big God is – big enough to see everything – even an 11-year-old’s broken heart.
Anyone else want to share the story of their first kiss? Go ahead! Let’s use our words as paint and cover a canvas in our tears and laughter and heartache. We’ll call it art, and we’ll hang it up on our walls, and we’ll point and say, “There. There is my story. That is why I am the person I am today.”
I grounded myself from dating that day.
My next kiss (note – we weren’t surrounded by our peers, and it did not originate from a dare) happened 12 years later. And I don’t regret it. But my first kiss was no longer going to be on my wedding day.
Y’all don’t want to hear about the next 3 years of my stumbling attempts at dating. I was a baby learning to walk. I fell down. A lot. And I learned by making mistakes. But I kept putting one foot in front of the other, and I eventually learned how to get from point A to point B. The learning curve was expedited. People usually master the awkward dating scene by the time they are freshmen in college, but I was just beginning as a college grad.
During those years, I gave men “husband privileges,” and they weren’t even boyfriends. It’s ironic that the man I called my boyfriend for a month (my first and last at 21) – we never kissed. But I’ve kissed others who never showed an interest in committing to that type of relationship. I was far from the 18-year-old who dreamed about kissing one man for the rest of her life. Ah, and I missed her.
So I decided to write this blog. In part to keep me accountable and also as a way to encourage others. My views aren’t going to be shared amongst all [five of] my readers and that’s okay. There is not a one size fits all when it comes to dating. But I wanted to slow down and catch my breath and start thinking about the man that will look at me one day and say, “Yes. She’s the one. I choose her.” So today and every day that follows and perhaps I won’t meet him before death do us part, but I’m looking at my husband and I’m saying, “Yes. He’s the one. I choose him.”
And that means those husband privileges – like spending the night and sharing a bed – are reserved for my husband. I used to tell God (I mean STRAIGHT UP Heavenly Father, listen, this is how it’s going to work…) if I wasn’t married by 30, I was never going to marry anyone. So there. I was frustrated with God and his timetable. But to give the author of the universe and the creator of you know everything AN ULTIMATUM is a joke. I diminished God into a hand held puppet. But he’s like guuurl:
Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!
Matthew 7:9-11
Even if I’m literally the 40-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN, I don’t care. Because God is good, and He is enough. At the end of the day – at the end of all my days – I will be a bride. And Jesus the bridegroom. So even if I’m never a bride here on earth, I will be a bride with the Church in heaven. And dang, that’ll be one hell of a wedding.
macrunnelk 