Sometimes my logic isn’t always sound, and I might be a bit ridiculous.
And it’s possible this happens far too often in my world.
For the majority of my life, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted. Read carefully: I thought. What I’ve been more mindful of lately, however, is why I want the things I want. And, honestly, some of my reasons tend to be pretty selfish.
I always thought I would be married by now—heck, I thought I would be married by the time I was 24. Obviously that’s not the case. For a really long time, though, I was not content with this. I wanted guys to be interested in me; I wanted someone to fall in love with me and sweep me off my feet; I wanted a fairytale.
If I’m being truthful, I likely wanted all of these things because it’s what I’ve always been taught is normal. I saw it in TV shows, I saw it in movies, and I even saw it in real-life examples of my friends and family. A girl finds her perfect guy, and she falls head-over-heels in love and marries him. And I wanted that story for myself.
When I was in middle school, I think that’s when I first began to realize that my family wasn’t as wealthy as many of my friends. We grew up in a very affluent suburban town, and it started to become even more prosperous as I got older. The homes got bigger, and the house I had always thought was just fine as a kid suddenly seemed so tiny in comparison. I spent a lot of time at one of my best friend’s, and I couldn’t help but be envious of how spacious her home was and how her parents never seemed to say “no” to anything she asked for from them. My parents did everything they could to make sure we got everything we needed, but I didn’t factor any of that in. All I saw was the “need” for a bigger house, and so I begged my parents to buy a house in my friend’s neighborhood. But it never happened. (Please go back to the part about me being ridiculous sometimes if you forgot that one.)
Looking back, I realize how silly I was. I had no reason for wanting a bigger house other than wanting to have a bigger house. Our home was just fine—in fact my parents still live there, and they are perfectly happy in it. I wanted something simply because I had a desire to feel better about who I was. (By the way, I still hate the middle school stage for so many other pressures like this that plague kids during that time of life.)
I think that for a long time my desire to fall in love and get married was a lot like my wanting of a bigger house: it would make me feel more sufficient. Thankfully, somewhere along the lines I came to realize that this is a complete lie. My sufficiency cannot be found in things, and it cannot be found in people. I don’t need a huge house, and I don’t need a man.
By no means am I saying it’s wrong to have these things, nor is it wrong to want them. I still wish I had someone to cuddle up and watch The Sandlot with when it’s storming (or anytime, really); I still want someone to be my plus one at weddings and who is willing to let me be ridiculous on the dance floor; I still want someone to hold my hand; I still want someone to eat Cheetos with me; I still want to love someone more than I ever thought possible.
But I will be perfectly content if none of that ever happens—and I’m confident in admitting that.
My reason for wanting these things isn’t the same as it used to be. I don’t feel like my life will be any worse off if I’m single forever (I mean, I’ve gone this long). I only want these things if it’s part of God’s plan. If that kind of love finds its way to my heart, it will be because He wants it to, not just because I want it to. I want the desires of my heart to be the desires of His heart. And I feel like, in least in this area of my life, they finally are.
And I don’t feel so ridiculous about this.