When you are single for a long time, you don’t think of
marriage less, necessarily. You simply have more time for your ideas and
thoughts to churn and morph and melt and thicken and be re-flavored and . . .
when did this become an ice cream analogy?
Anyway, I have imbibed some unhealthy notions the last
couple years, and it’s taken til now for me to put a label on them.
I took this picture off the internet, and now I feel I have to clarify that I did not take this sumptuous photograph. |
See, I had decided that what I primarily wanted in a
potential husband was someone who I would not be embarrassed to be in public
with. Someone who I could be proud to introduce to my family and all my diverse
groups of friends.
Even now, the thought gives me happy, warm fuzzies.
Even now, the thought gives me happy, warm fuzzies.
In other words, I have wanted a trophy husband.
And I've even gotten to where I can slide a little on less shallow things, like spiritual depth, to get a man whom I can always look up to and respect in that
way. If after we were married he became a little distant, at least I could always hold him up as my . .
. trophy.
I'm rethinking that notion now. I'm wondering whether I might rather have someone with good character, spiritual depth, and meaningful conversation, even if I have to make excuses for him sometimes or roll my eyes or laugh at him. That's how my friends are after all. I can overlook their quirks because I enjoy being with them. And, to be honest, I'm rather proud to have my friends as friends. But for some reason, once I slap the label "prospect husband" on a fellow . . . I go beserk. He takes on a whole new hue, never before seen through the eyes of "friend."And not that of a rosy love-light either.
Not that I have a bevvy of young men to filter through (I'm done with online dating for now), but it is worth reexamining my unspoken notions.
Meanwhile I came across the funniest picture on FB. Funny because it was so unsubtle.
The article was really good though. And short. I decided not to share it on FB because it would come off a little bold from a girl, but you can read it here.
A few parting quotes from my new bandwagon book, Getting Serious about Getting Married by Debbie Maken. As always, use your own discernment. If God is not speaking to you about this, shelf it.
" . . . God prefers our enthusiasm and embrace of his design to lukewarm neutrality."
"Why would God make us desire marriage by design and then test us to assure our ambivalence toward that very design?"
"God desires your openness and honesty about your desire--not a false ambivalence . . . ."
I'm rethinking that notion now. I'm wondering whether I might rather have someone with good character, spiritual depth, and meaningful conversation, even if I have to make excuses for him sometimes or roll my eyes or laugh at him. That's how my friends are after all. I can overlook their quirks because I enjoy being with them. And, to be honest, I'm rather proud to have my friends as friends. But for some reason, once I slap the label "prospect husband" on a fellow . . . I go beserk. He takes on a whole new hue, never before seen through the eyes of "friend."And not that of a rosy love-light either.
Not that I have a bevvy of young men to filter through (I'm done with online dating for now), but it is worth reexamining my unspoken notions.
Meanwhile I came across the funniest picture on FB. Funny because it was so unsubtle.
The article was really good though. And short. I decided not to share it on FB because it would come off a little bold from a girl, but you can read it here.
A few parting quotes from my new bandwagon book, Getting Serious about Getting Married by Debbie Maken. As always, use your own discernment. If God is not speaking to you about this, shelf it.
" . . . God prefers our enthusiasm and embrace of his design to lukewarm neutrality."
"Why would God make us desire marriage by design and then test us to assure our ambivalence toward that very design?"
"God desires your openness and honesty about your desire--not a false ambivalence . . . ."
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