“Let's harmonize.”
I had no idea as I sat in my folding
chair that Sunday morning,
slightly disheveled from a late night out, later to church than
normal, and distracted by unfamiliar crowds, that I'd hear the words
and feel the validation I didn't even know I'd been waiting for.
I'm sure my eyes widened more than was
appropriate at seeing his tall, slim figured sliding in to the seat
next to me. Black coffee swirled and sloshed in the paper cup he
carried. I rushed to move my things from the chair without making a
fool of myself – I imagined accidentally covering him in cheap iced
coffee or stabbing him with my ever-jingling keys. I'm sure I said
something acquiescent, attempting to channel more grace and less
nervousness than I actually felt.
He'd never heard me sing, though we'd
talked about music several times before and he'd apparently taken me
at my word that I could actually sing. This trust created more
nervousness in me than was probably necessary, but as the worship
began, we stood beside each other and fumbled to hear melodies and
each others' harmonies and finally fell into an easy blend as the
measures passed.
For me, the sermon passed
excruciatingly slowly. Direction from Paul in Ephesians on husbands
and wives is always hard for me; it reminds me that I'm not yet
married, despite my wish to be, and to sit next to him, our legs
crossing in opposite directions and our opposite handedness evident
in the way we move, reminded me that I might never be. Because of my
uncertain feelings, I'd been somewhat deliberately choosing to avoid
showing interest in him because I'd not seen any signs of
interest from him. In fact, those words were likely the first
ones that I'd heard from him that even hinted at more than just a
passing acknowledgment of my existence.
In that, I probably read too much. But
nonetheless, my logical brain can see connections where there may not
be any yet, and his invitation inspired boldness in me. “It's okay
to be transparent about feelings,” I chanted to myself as if I'd
heard it in therapy while composing the most succinct email I could
create to offer thanks and invite conversation. I've counseled this
very mantra to other women struggling to find the balance between
modern female empowerment and traditional and Biblical values in
dating. More often than not, I'd fallen off one side or other of the
fence, and these days, I mostly erred in the cowardly direction.
Three sentences and several consultations of a thesaurus later, I
sent it, mentally preparing for the worst I could imagine happening.
In truth, the response was neither
absent nor disparaging, as my anxiety had projected. It was polite,
nonchalant, and an excellent reminder that my existence (and maybe
even my talent) was acknowledged and that was all I should expect.
And so, here I sit, basking and
over-analyzing in writing a series of events that was likely just a
blip on his radar, if even that. Perhaps this will be my own form of
therapy as I work to remember that it is
okay to be transparent, but that transparency invites the same and
can lead to disappointment in much the same way as self-sabotage can,
only with less control and more anxiety. Today, I'll have grace for
courage and grace for cowardice.
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