A letter to my future husband (for real this time)

Two years ago, I published my first-ever "Letter to My Future Husband" (read it here), even though I wasn't sure he existed. Today I offer the second letter.

Dear Steven,

I am not accustomed to being wrong.  Teachers always praised my apt answers, and friends have lauded my accurate intuitions. You, maddening man, have taught me that I have been wrong more times than I count on all sorts of things. To my surprise, I am finding that being is wrong is much more beautiful than I ever would have guessed.

Consider: I was wrong when I imagined that this summer would be mostly about teaching online courses and writing a conference paper. I was wrong when I thought I could never meet someone I loved more than my job. I was wrong when I thought it would take me years of knowing someone before I would be willing to marry him.

...

On the day you proposed, we had eaten lunch in a soup kitchen, helped an elderly man weed his community garden plot, and waded up to our necks in the river that runs through Austin. I had realized, weeks earlier, that if I were ever going to marry anyone, it would be you, but I was still trying to understand how and when such a thing could happen. And I knew, on some level deeper than I could explain, that you were grappling with the same questions. At the same time, I was increasingly certain that you would ask me to be your wife. I imagined the question coming somewhere in the future, somewhere in an appointed season, the kairos of our intwining days. Even so, in chronos, the moment itself, I was stunned. I think you were, too.

When I said yes, we both laughed and cried, bewildered and joyful to find ourselves on the threshold of a parable: a life together that, we pray, will grow into a picture of the wedding feast of Christ. We prayed underneath the hot sun and the cool green tree, and then remembered that we had left your car with your friends, and that we needed to find a bus to take home. So it's been since our first conversation: a perfect collision of the sublime and the ordinary, the marvelous and mundane.  

...

When I told the news of our engagement to my friend Emily, she nearly dropped her baby. Having stilled the child, Emily laughed. "I feel like Sara from the Bible," she said, "hearing the news that she will conceive."   And then, as I told her about you--about your revolutionary work with farming and the homeless and community, about how I admire your faith, your capacity for vision, your boldness, your strength--the laughter moved from her lips to her eyes. "Oh, I've waited so long to meet the person who could captivate you," she said. "I knew he would have to be someone amazing."  I hope it gives you joy to think that not only I, but my friends, have been waiting to meet you for a very long time.

Our friends. They love us so: even as they have sputtered with shock at our timeline, they have toasted us, prayed over us, asked us hard and necessary questions, hugged us, cried with us. Some of them know they story as well as we can tell it, others are still reeling from the mere news. Even so, they trust us, and they have told us so. More importantly, they trust the God we love. They know our choice, our partnership, will drive us deeper into the heart of God than we have ever been before.   

...

When I bought my house, I set aside one room as a place for God to work.  I called it "Spare Oom" after The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  I determined I would not fill that room with my possessions or my plans, but that I would wait for God to fill it with a good story. Kala was the first answer to that prayer, and she brought so much joy with her. We both knew, of course, that her season there would be short, that she would go from Spare Oom to somewhere else. But that, of course, is the point of Spare Oom. In the Chronicles of Narnia, Spare Oom isn't a place you stay: it is a threshold, a place that leads you to a world you did not imagine possible. When I gave that room to God, I thought I was consecrating a physical space for hospitality, but in fact I was opening a space in my life. I was saying, "Don't let me fill my life only with what I can plan or understand. Don't let me spend my time and money only on what pleases or amuses me. Fill my world with others and with friends. Invade my tidy home for the sake of your kingdom." By bringing Spare Oom into my house, my life, I allowed God to lead me to an unexpected door. When I said yes to you, I stepped through the door. Before me, I see an unfamiliar landscape: beautiful, strange, and yet it somehow feels like home.

Love ever,

Bethany

My hypothetical husband, the spy

This week, I'm visiting my hometown in Indiana. My mother and I just had the following conversation, and it was too good to keep to myself: 


Mama: You've had enough big life events in the last year. Let's not get married this year.

Me: Married? But I'm not even.....

Mama: Oh, I know, I know. But these things happen.

Me: Even if I were to fall in love and decide to marry someone, I wouldn't want to be engaged this year.

Mama: But you always said you wanted a Christmas wedding....

Me: Good grief, Mama, I've been unmarried for twenty-nine years already; I think I could manage to wait until the next Christmas.

Mama: But there might be a war.

Me: A war? So, you want me to move up the date of my hypothetical wedding because of a hypothetical war?

Mama [nodding]: He might be a spy. [pause] You know, I had a friend in college who had to get married in a hurry because her husband was going to jail. [pause] Don't marry someone who's going to jail.

Me: I won't. Unless it's for defending civil rights, or something like that.

Mama: Right. Don't marry someone going to jail unless he's going for a just cause.

Me: Okay, Mama. I promise.

(From the  State Library of Queensland. No known copyright restrictions)

Why Virginity Matters (or, Hey! Where's my unicorn?)

I really wanted to write about real estate tonight. I wanted to write a cozy and encouraging post about shopping for houses, hardwood floors, and decisions regarding mortgages. However, some things I saw on Facebook tonight (this, this, and this, in particular) have compelled me to address a topic I've been brooding over for months: virginity.

"Virgin with Unicorn" by Französischer Tapisseur (15th Century)

For the last few years I have been trying to understand what's so wonderful about virginity. The culture at large treats virginity among adults like a joke. Meanwhile, the standard evangelical line, which tends to discuss virginity only in the context of sexual purity before marriage, doesn't do much for  those of us who are adults with no immediate prospects for marriage. Last summer I addressed this issue in one of my most-read posts, "True Love Doesn't Wait"(read it here).

Considering virginity has been a lonely reflection, mainly because it seems awkward to introduce "the delights of virginity" as a topic for discussion at dinner. And yet, I think that if we expect young men and women to remain virgins, we should have something good to say about virginity. For my part, I experience virginity as something beautiful, particularly when I see how the Bible consistently uses sexual states to represent spiritual conditions. When I sit in a room of married friends, I often feel that I possess something--in my relationship to Christ as an unmarried person--that they do not, just as they, in their marriage, know and experience something as Christians that I have not known. I don't have a word for that feeling. Nor do I know if it is a valid feeling, a Spirit-led feeling. I'm rather ashamed that I am only now, at the age of 29, even bothering to wonder about it. 

If I were approaching this question as a scholar, I would probably need to start by addressing  the historical and anthropological research on virginity, including a survey of the many ways ideals about virginity have been misused throughout history. However, I'm writing tonight as Bethany, not as Dr. Bear, and so I begin not with a scholarly literature review, but with a question I began to ask as a teenager. When I was 14 or 15, I read that according to medieval folklore, only a virgin could tame a unicorn, calming the notoriously violent creature. Madeleine L'Engle makes modern use of this legend in her novel Many Waters, and the legend has fascinated me ever since. Something about a virgin is so alluring, so powerful, that even the wildest creature submits to it. The virgin in this legend is neither defenseless nor worthless; she has more power than even the mightiest and most aggressive hunter who tries--and fails--to catch the mythic creature. 

This legend echoes through my imagination whenever I read 2 Corinthians 11, as Paul writes to the church in Corinth, "I feel a divine jealousy for you, since I betrothed you to one husband, to present you as a pure virgin to Christ. But I am afraid that as the serpent deceived Eve by his cunning, your thoughts will be led astray from a sincere and pure devotion to Christ" (vv. 2-3).  

Paul contrasts a "pure virgin" with Eve, and the analogy is telling: if Eve was deceived by cunning, a virgin sees through lies. If Eve was led astray, a virgin remains on the path he or she has chosen. Paul chooses the physical state of virginity to symbolize clear-eyed, undaunted devotion to Christ. It shouldn't be surprising, then, that many medieval writers saw the unicorn legend--the strange creature tamed by a virgin--as an allegory for Christ's relationship to his mother Mary. 

These are only preliminary, tentative thoughts on a vast and mysterious topic. I don't know if I will be brave enough or wise enough to write any more on this subject, but I do feel that I can draw two conclusions from tonight's reflections: 

1) Sexual purity is crucial to a healthy Christian marriage, but discussions of virginity can't stop here. Allowing virginity to become a relic of outmoded culture, rather than a witness to new life in Christ, is a tragic failure of imagination. 

2) As a virgin, I should live my life in such a way that it becomes a symbol for the life of Christ's body on earth: undeceived, committed, and focused on the Way. 

I cannot pretend that I have a complete picture of why virginity matters to a Christian, just as I doubt most married Christians completely understand the mystery of Christ and the church, which their state of life is supposed to symbolize. I hope to ponder this question with prayer and joy in the years to come, and perhaps you'll ponder with me. In the meantime, let's not forget that most American adults can say they found someone to marry them, but one of these days, a few us are going to show up at church with a unicorn. 

Thankful: A Single Girl Needs Married Friends

Today, I am thankful for all my married friends.

I am finally at an age where most of my friends are wed. The shift came a year or two ago, when I realized that in a group of ten friends from church, I might be the only person unmarried. Now that I am in a job where most of my colleagues are married, it is even more clear that my minority position is most likely permanent.

My most recently-married friends. I wrote about their wedding here.

You might think that it has become more difficult to remain content as a single woman among so many married peers, but that hasn't been my experience. As an only child (in a world of siblings), an introvert (in a world of extroverts), and a general nonconformist, I've never really minded being the odd one out. Even more importantly, my married friends are all admirable, adorable, amazing people, and they use their marriages to bless everyone around them, including me. Consequently, the grace I am celebrating today includes all my married friends.

Here are some of the wonderful things they do....

1. They provide resources I don't have.

One of the most frightening things about being single (or, let's be honest: being an adult) is facing difficulties without help. Investigating creepy sounds from downstairs. Dealing with the steam pouring from the engine. Packing for a job interview when I am too sick to sit up. Married couples, simply by being two instead of one, often have twice as many practical resources to share. For example, my friend and neighbor Stephanie would send her husband (and also my friend) Jon to walk through my apartment for me when I was worried about mysterious sounds. This may seem like a little thing, but it had the power to make the world seem far less frightening.

Some of my favorite married people.  Jenn was with us but didn't make it into the picture. (Picture stolen from Stephanie Harris Trevor's Facebook page.

2. They keep me from idealizing marriage. 

My mother often says, "Being single is hard. Being married is hard. They're just hard in different ways." My temperament is more optimistic than my mother's, but I am thankful that my married friends do not hide the fact that marriage--like every good labor--has its difficult days. Recognizing that husbands and wives must practice patience, silence, humility, and submission in ways I can hardly fathom keeps me from pitying the burden of my own state.

3. They keep me from denigrating singleness. 

I have heard some single people complain about their married friends nagging them to date, or no longer hanging out with them.  Thankfully, my married friends do none of those things. In fact, some of the greatest affirmation I have had as a single woman have come from married men and women. They remind me that my state frees me to travel, study, explore, and serve in ways they cannot. I have often roused myself from discontent by saying, "If Julianna thinks my life is beautiful and full, who am I to scorn my own riches?"

4. They have children. 

Children only became interesting to me as my own friends began to bear and adopt them. As a child and teen, I was never particularly interested in younger children. For the last ten years or so, however, children have become marvelous to me. The fact that we can bring new people into the world still strikes me as a deep mystery, and I am thankful to witness this mystery in the lives of my friends. As I near thirty and begin to wonder if I will ever have children of my own, I am thankful for friends who allow me to love their children as a kind of unofficial aunt. I am thankful for little boys for whom I can make castles, little girls who want to play with the little cats I knit, and whole crops of babies to outfit in sweaters.

5. They provide a safe place for mixed-gender friendships. 

If I were to name my closest, share-my-deepest-secrets-wth sorts of friends, the list would be pretty equally divided between men and women. However, maintaining friendships between men and women is much more difficult at 28 than it was at 12, or even than it was at 20. While observers are likely to assume romantic interest in any male-female friendships, those assumptions are much more dangerous than they once were. If someone thought Mark and I were flirting in college, I could simply laugh it off. However, now that Mark is married, I am much more sensitive to how our friendship could look to outsiders. I would hesitate to spend large amounts of time with Mark alone -- not because I don't trust him, or myself--but because it might mislead others. Happily, Mark's wife, Moriah, has become a dear friend in her own right, and their marriage has allowed to me to stay friends with Mark by becoming friends with them both.  As I have discussed elsewhere, I'm not very interested in women-only-events, and I would mourn the loss of my close male friends.

6. They bring me into families. 

Whatever virtues a single life might have (and there are many), it can too easily lack any sense of belonging. Eating alone is nothing like being a part of a family, but then again, exchanging tepid courtesies and fleeting handshakes on Sunday morning isn't much better (in fact, I consider it far worse than honest solitude). However, over the years my married friends have been tenacious and creative in their willingness to invite me into their lives. They have used Skype, meals, guest rooms and houses to make a place for me. They didn't make me demand or beg entry; they invited and celebrated my coming.  These were not casual arrangements, not acts of pity, but decisions made from love. In these actions, my friends showed that they were committed to me--not in the same way they were committed to one another, but with bonds of Christian love that are real and lasting.

With Grant and Jenn at my graduation. May 2012

I've not done my friends justice with this post, but then gratitude, not justice, was my aim.  We all need to people in different stages and seasons of life to temper and challenge us. If I ever do marry, these friends will be my mentors and guides. Until then, or if I never marry, they will remain friends who baffle, humble, and delight me with their oh-so-different, oh-so-common lives.

If you are single, what do your married friends do that make you grateful? If you are married, how are you grateful for your single friends? 

Flight to the Wedding Feast

Costa Rica, October 13, 2012 Photo by Larissa Smith 

I've been to at least 100 weddings in my 28 years. When I was a three-year-old flower girl, I was very excited about my basket of flowers, but I was not happy about all the people looking at me, and a bridesmaid had to carry me down the aisle. As an older child, I was most excited about eating cake and throwing rice.

As a teenager, all the weddings I attended were for college students I loved and admired. I celebrated these weddings with awe. I knew that in those solemn hours I was witnessing the culmination of countless cautious flirtations, late-night conversations, hard questions, daring adventures, and growing trust. I was curious but shy about the joy of these events. Once, when I refused to come up for the bouquet toss, pleading shyness, the bride commanded the groom to literally carry me from my chair to the dance floor. Their joy in that day was so great that they would suffer no excuses from bashful guests.

More recently, I have reveled in the weddings of many dear friends. Each and every one has had beautiful moments: praying with Mark before he took his place at the altar to await his bride; listening to Lindsay sing for her new husband's mother-son dance; watching Martin and Mary shine like a king and queen during their wedding mass.

The Bible says that one of the purposes of marriage is to give us a glimpse of the relationship between Christ and the Church (Ephesians 5.31-32), and Jesus uses images of wedding feasts again and again in his parables about the Kingdom of God.

Last week I flew to Costa Rica for the wedding of some of my dearest friends, and ever since, I've been thinking about what my five-score weddings have taught me about the way the world should be. I spent most of yesterday's Sabbath flying back to the US, and as I travelled, I used these pictures to pray for the world's redemption.

Costa Rica, October 12, 2012 

The Costa Rica wedding is still too recent for me to write about it in full -- it is too dear, too precious to become public just yet. But I will say that it has given me even better pictures of the way this world can and will be changed by love:

...And then the bride and her bridegroom will make a home for those they love in a strange and beautiful land. They will give them rooms that perch on the hillsides, with windows that look to the ocean. Together--bride and groom and guests--they will venture into the mountains, will feel the heat of volcanoes, will fly from tree to tree. They will feast for days, and when the wedding night comes, even those who are shy and sore and heavy-hearted will dance. They will send lanterns into the night sky like fledgling stars. Save your coins for this, save your days and lift up your heart. Make your best dress ready and find shoes for climbing. Don't miss your flight to the wedding feast. 

Costa Rica, October 13, 2012 Photo by Larissa Smith

A letter to my future husband

Dear Sir,

I hope you'll pardon the formal salutation. I don't mean to be stuffy, but as far as I know, we haven't been properly introduced yet, and I am a stickler for decorum. For that matter, I'm not convinced you actually exist, and it would be forward to call an imaginary fiancé "darling." Therefore, for the time being, "sir" you must remain.

I feel a little silly writing this letter at all. If you have read my blog, you may have guessed that I haven't spent much time or energy looking for you. This summer, however, you've been more-than-usually on my mind.  I'm not sure what it is about Alabama, but my marriage prospects seem to be a very interesting topic of conversation down here. From mortgage lenders on the phone to missionaries at the churches I've visited, all sorts of people have brought up the topic of my getting married. My Mississippi-bred mother says this is an example of people in the Deep South being "in your business" in ways they aren't in Texas, and certainly are not in the Midwest where I grew up. These conversations have baffled and amused me; I certainly don't mind if people ask me whether or not I am going to marry, but they all seem much more interested in the question than I am.

Despite my laughter, these conversations have made me curious. Who might you be? Brilliant and introverted like the guys I have dated? Extroverted and funny like so many of my male friends? I hope you know that whatever your virtues, you're up against some pretty high standards. I have grown up around amazing men, including my father, his students, and my own beloved brother-friends. These are men who build houses and non-profits, men who play the piano and plant gardens, men who can put a whole room at ease with a few words, men who stay late to clean up after everyone else has gone home; men who listen and challenge and laugh and pray. Having loved such a strong company, I have learned that when it comes to suitors, my affections rise easily--I will come to care for you quickly--but my respect and admiration are much more difficult to earn. This means, dear sir, that if you're not already doing something good, beautiful, and true with your life, you'd better start today.

This is a strange time for me -- having just finished the first great work of my adult life, I'm embarking on new seas, praying each day for a vision that will guide me in the coming years. That vision might include you, or it might not. There is joy in it either way, but you should know that if we meet and if we wed, I won't be surrendering my vision -- I'll be looking for shared lodestars and common beacons. I've often wished that both husband and wife would change their names upon marriage--that would seem the best possible sign of this mysterious becoming-one-ness I hear about. I will not be absorbed, or purchased, or won, but I could be called, invited, and challenged to exchange this precious single life for something new with you.

I don't need you, my dear sir, and I hope you know that you don't need me either. If we cannot find our deepest joy in Christ and his Church, we have no business trying to find any happiness with one another. And yet,  there may come a day when I want to keep you around. If that day comes, I hope you'll be patient with me, because the thought of linking my life with someone else, of changing my long-loved name, of sharing my bookshelves --well, these things terrify me far more than specters of loneliness.

That's probably enough of my profound musing on the nature and possibilities of marriage. It is, I admit, a subject I know nearly nothing about. More mundanely, I should warn you that while I cook well, I don't do it terribly often. If you're the sort of person who wants supper every night, you'll need to be patient at first.

So ends my first (and perhaps only) letter to you. I write merely out of courtesy; you should have some sense of what you could be getting yourself into. Again, I have my doubts as to your ontological weight, but the people here speak about you as though you could be real. I should also note that for more than twenty years my father has said he prays for you. If you don't exist, I hope God has redirected those prayers to some flesh-and-blood spouse making his ancient and wonderful vows.

Should you choose to reply, I remain

                                                                                                                  sincerely yours,

                                                                                                                             Bethany

P.S. If any of those mortgage lenders, missionaries, or other new friends happen to read this, please know that I really don't mind talking about marriage; I just don't have much to say on the subject yet. Furthermore, if you happen to have an inkling as to the whereabouts of my dear sir, do let me know. I've often thought that arranged marriages would save everyone a great deal of time and trouble.

True Love Doesn't Wait

As a teenager, I never signed a True Love Waits card, never wore a promise ring, and never kissed dating goodbye. My distance from these "purity" movements came in part from indifference: during high school, I was too busy studying to put my virtue in much danger. At the same time, I resented the implications that "true love" was, first of all, expressed primarily through sex, and that I was supposed to wait patiently for marriage to express true love.  

Lest any of my readers are worried, I should say that I believe teenagers should remain abstinent. I believe unmarried adults should, too. As usual, the ways of the world (and the behaviors of many Christian adults) stand in pretty stark contrast to my ideals, and I don't pretend to know how to address all the problems of extramarital sex. I do, however, know that for unmarried Christians, there are some trends in religious language and culture that certainly aren't helping.  

When I read books, blogs, and articles about unmarried Christians, there is this troubling implication that we are supposed to be waiting faithfully for marriage. Take, for example, a recent article on the website for Relevant magazine. The author of "Tales of 25-Year-Old-Virgin" provides a thoughtful and honest account of the struggles faced by many young adults who feel isolated and impatient as virgins.  He opens his article with the question, "Is waiting really worth t?" The world tends to laugh at this question, and the church too-often responds with cringe-worthy exclamations about the joys of married sex.   Admirably, the author turns to Scripture for consolation, writing 

“Sex should be saved for marriage” isn’t the only thing Scripture tells us. It also says God knows the plans He has for us (Jeremiah 29:11). It says if we wait patiently for Him, He will turn and hear our cry (Psalm 40:1). It says His thoughts are not our thoughts and His ways are not our ways (Isaiah 55:8). And, if all that is true, we should endeavor to run with endurance the race set before us (Hebrews 12:1), hoping for what we don’t see and waiting for it with patience (Romans 8:25). If, after 12 years, God still wants me to save sex for marriage, I have to believe those other verses still hold true as well."

I know I should be glad that this young man finds solace in the Bible, but as I read his article, I find myself shouting, "Those verses have nothing to do with marriage!" Perhaps he does not mean to imply that they do, but I have heard variations on this logic before. "Be patient, keep yourself pure, and God give you the desires of your heart in the person of a beautiful/handsome spouse." 

In Christian conversations about abstinence, there is an elephant in the room, and she's not wearing a wedding dress. 

The question I want to ask, the question I was once desperate for my mentors and friends to answer, is this: What if God doesn't care whether or not I marry anyone? What if one of the most important ways Christians can bear witness to the Gospel is by showing that marriage is not necessary for a whole, joyful, and complete life?

A few years ago, I attended a concert and prayer workshop led by John Michael Talbot, a Catholic musician, writer, and spiritual leader of a monastic community, The Little Portion. This community is made up of celibate men and women, married couples, and families with children--all committed to a common life of prayer, work, and community. After the workshop, I met some members from The Little Portion at the CD table, and as we spoke about their community and my life, they said, "Have you considered the religious life?" Knowing they meant religious orders, I said, "But I'm not Catholic." "Oh, that's no trouble, you could convert!" they laughed.

The attraction of their joy and love was so strong that for a moment I was tempted to abandon my Baptist upbringing, exchanging a few theological scruples for a life that seemed to embody the Gospel in a way I have rarely seen in the churches of my own heritage. 

Rarely have I encountered such a vibrant alternative to the status-quo in Protestant circles, and that should shame us.  Shame on churches that teach little girls to save all their love for Mr. If-Ever, or that answer the loneliness of young men with the vague and unbiblical promise that "God has someone special for you." (As my roommate once quipped, if you think God has already planned a spouse for you, you had better hope you're not Hosea.) Shame on single men and women who lack the courage and imagination to make Gospel use of the freedom we have. Shame on me for all the hours I have pined for a husband, not realizing that I was simply repeating Israel's demand in 1 Samuel 8: "appoint a king to lead us, such as all the other nations have." 

I am thankful to have spent the last five years in a church that is unusual in this regard, thankful that I can say with honesty and integrity that I treasure my life as an unmarried woman, single but hardly alone.  I worry, however, about whether I will find such a wise home after leaving that community. I worry about whether it will be as easy for me to give thanks for singleness when I am no longer in my twenties, no longer surrounded by close friends who remind me that my life is complete through Christ and his Body the Church.   

Perpetuating the illusion that marriage will come to everyone is damaging and unloving to unmarried Christians. I don't want to rant about this, but I do want to call all of us in the Church, married and unmarried alike, to think about the ways our lives should transcend the question of whether or not we're allowed to have sex yet. Married and unmarried alike, we need to help one another dream better dreams than the vain imaginings the world offers us. 

If I ever do marry, I will enter that covenant with joy and confidence, marveling at the  strange and holy mystery of two becoming one. I will change my name, and I suppose I will even let Mr. If-Ever sleep with me.  But I'm not going to fret myself waiting for that day. I have good work to do and good friends to tend. Such love simply will not wait. 

Life Undivided: Fridgidaires and Failures of the Imagination, Part I

I did not intend for this blog to become a spiritual inventory of my kitchen appliances, but after last week’s post on my crock pot, my thoughts have turned to the refrigerator.  (And for the record, I’m in good company discerning spiritual truths from domestic machinery. You can read my favorite example here). 

When I moved into my first, and then my second, apartment, I did not intentionally consecrate the front of my fridge as a place of honor. However, after spending time in the kitchens of friends and acquaintances, I realize that the items on my fridge are typical among other church-going young adults. Almost all the items fall into one of three categories: 

1) save-the-date cards and/or wedding announcements  

2) birth announcements 

3) prayer cards for women (or, less often, families) who serve as missionaries

I put these things on my refrigerator because they represent decisions worth celebrating, blessing, and sustaining.  When I see Jenn and Grant’s save-the-date card, or Casey and Caitlin’s wedding invitation, I remember that a holy choice--the choice to make one from two--can renew our tired language about love. When I see Jordan’s baby boy smiling above my grocery list, I catch my breath, amazed that my friends have produced this entirely new person.  And the beautiful woman with the rich brown eyes? She has just left the US to begin her career as a Bible translator.  Even in a secular context, these decisions and events (especially the first two) would be deemed worth celebrating, but they all have deep, beautiful roots in the faith of Jenn, Grant, Casey, Caitlin, Jordan, and all the rest who smile from my fridge door.  Most of the time, churches do a very good job of supporting people as the enter new seasons of marriage, parenthood, and ministry. 

At the same time, my fridge sometimes makes me sigh a little.  Having no wedding to announce, baby to boast, or foreign mission to claim, it would seem I have not yet made any decision worthy of the refrigerator door. I don’t really mope much about my lack of spouse or child; I would very much like to have both one day, but for now I am content knit and sew for other people’s babies.  Nor do I think I missed my calling by not following Lottie Moon to a distant land.  

Instead, I have begun to reflect on the way Christians celebrate (or fail to celebrate) the decisions and events other than marriage, children, or traditional ministry that shape our lives.  

Whether or not you have followed the recent debates about the changing milestones (or lack thereof) among young adults, you have probably noticed that many adults--young or otherwise--have built lives that look rather different from their parents’ lives.  Maybe they have married later, or not at all. Maybe they have stepped into careers which, though “secular,” they see as vocations in which we can love mercy, do justice, and walk humbly with our God. Maybe they have chosen or have been unable to bear children, and exercise their love in a thousand daily, hidden ways. 

Unfortunately,  Christian communities often fail to bless, celebrate, and sustain these seasons and choices if they do not fall into a few traditional categories.   

This is a failure of imagination, and it endangers the life of the church. 

When I visited my home church after a semester of graduate school and half a year of living on my own, I felt this failure keenly. I was one of three young people who came home that Christmas--in fact, the three of us had once constituted our church’s entire youth group--and I was thrilled to talk to these friends, as one looked forward to the birth of her first child, and the other to his upcoming marriage.  Then, during a church-wide meal (which, in my home church, meant a gathering of fifty or so people), the three of us sat next to each other as men and women shared things they were thankful for. One woman, who had known all three of us since our cradles, stood and said, 

“I just give thanks to see our young people back with us at Christmas. We’ve known them since they were babies, and now they’re all about to start such exciting new times of their lives: I mean, just look--she is going to have a baby, and he is getting married!” 

Then she sat down.  

I was stricken. Her silence confirmed exactly what I feared: that all my work, all my anxiety, all my hopes about vocation were in vain. So what if, in the privacy of my heart, I had dedicated to God my decision to become a professor? 

Clearly, it wasn’t worth putting up on the fridge.   

Admittedly, this failure was largely my fault. I was still so mopey and miserable after that first semester that I didn’t do much to explain why I saw my decision to pursue teaching as so important, so sacred.  I didn’t try to help them understand why that year of school felt so different from every other school year.  A few difficult months had shaken my confidence, and I didn’t have the energy to convince anyone else that I had made a wise decision. 

A few weeks later, however, when a complete stranger asked me what I did, and, hearing my answer, exclaimed, “What a beautiful thing to do!  God’s kingdom needs scholars and teachers,” I nearly kissed him. My church's silence had made me think, "Well, my fears were right. My choice wasn't holy--school is simply something I'm doing because I'm not starting a family."  This stranger's words, however, infused me with some fiery tonic of hope and indignation. 

I want to be, like that kind man, the sort of person who can celebrate any decision a person makes for the sake of that Kingdom. 

Now, despite my pitiful story, it would disingenuous to suggest I’m really starving for affirmation.  Especially in my current church and social circles, my choices have been respected and encouraged. And at the end of it, I will  at least earn some fancy robes and a funny hat.  But as I write this, I have to ask myself, do I have enough imagination to see even less obvious times and seasons to bless and celebrate? Am I brave enough  to stand up in church and say, “Bless this man as he goes to his office each day, honoring God in his integrity as a janitor”? Or, “Thank you, God, for this woman who has returned to live with and care for her aging parents. Sustain this beautiful, difficult, joyful service she has begun in your name.”  

I am not arguing that we should celebrate the weddings and babies and missionaries any less.  In fact, I would be in favor of celebrating them even more jubilantly (three-day-long wedding feasts! fireworks after the baby dedications!). I challenge you, however, to think in very practical terms about when and how a church can bless, celebrate, and sustain other seasons and decisions.  What about a young man beginning his career as an attorney? What about the woman who has just purchased her first house? What about the childless couple that has decided to become foster parents? If these decisions--like marriage or the mission field--can be offered to God,  I believe they deserve a place of public consecration during worship. I believe they deserve prayer and solemn words of commission, songs and testimonies and at least one bold “Amen!”

And a party.  I would love to see the day when these new seasons carry their own traditions: 

“Oh, is tomorrow the day for Katie’s home-dedication?”

“Yes! I’m giving the blessing. And I’m so excited about the sparkling cider and pear tart! I haven’t had any since Andy set up his household….” 

“Do you know the address?”

“Sure. The announcement is right here on my fridge.” 

***

In my next post, I will finish my survey of the Frigidaire, offering some hopeful signs and suggestions about imagining new reasons to celebrate.  In the meantime, tell me what seasons of life and/or decisions you have seen or would like to see your church bless, celebrate, and sustain. What do or would these celebrations entail?