It was a repeat of the strains I’d heard all morning. Our tightly knit little church — made up of a few wounded survivors of the last split — was missing nine members. The adults had given me awkward smiles or sympathetic hugs. They were kind enough to refrain from speculating on whether or not the family would ever return to church. The children were more honest. Their friends were gone. They missed them. They didn’t understand why. And it was my fault. For just a few days before I, the daughter, had called off the courtship.

The talk coming from the nursery was the first clue indicating how widespread the effects of my choice would spread. At the weekly homeschool support classes my former boyfriend and I taught at, my best friend was now forced to choose — did she go with his family for lunch as was our tradition, or stay behind with me and eat lunch alone on the sidewalk? More and more often she chose his family, and I encouraged her to go. There was no use making everyone suffer along with me. “After all,” she said, “you did lead us all on.”

Had I?

I had tried so hard to do everything right. I had never kissed — even on the playground. I had carefully squashed out every hint of interest in a boy, telling myself I was young and silly and needed to be at least twenty before I began a romantic relationship. I had worn skirts and evaluated my clothing choices so I wouldn’t cause my brothers-in-Christ to sin. If I found myself alone with a boy, I left or suggested we move to a more populated area. I had listened to the wishes of my parents.

The day after my 20th birthday, I waited on the steps of my kitchen for three hours wondering what in the world my father and he could be talking about for so long. My parents had already checked for my wishes. They had already given their blessing. The boy was everything a good suitor should be — with the exception that he was nine months younger than myself and I’d always imagined someone older. But God’s will was God’s will, and age shouldn’t matter that much. He was smart, already CLEPing out of college. He had goals, held a lot of the same standards, was clean-cut and even handsome.

My father finally came out. “He has asked to court you. I give you permission. If y’all want to meet up or drive out to a movie or dinner or something, that’s fine with me. Just don’t linger alone in the car or in dark places for too long. Don’t stay in the parking lot — go ahead and go inside.” Then we were left alone to clear up the last few questions. Was I okay with this? Yes, I was. Because he was unclear, if we were to marry was I okay with children and how many? My heart began to pound. I was the youngest of three children — all of whom had come into the world far earlier than normal. My mother’s pregnancies hadn’t been easy. He was the eldest of a family of eight with siblings still under school age. And I had a secret. Sometimes I thought I couldn’t have children. Sometimes I wished I couldn’t have children. The idea of pregnancy terrified me to an unnatural extent. But surely that would change. Everyone told me it would change. And if I was going to stay home and homeschool, I may as well do it right and have a bunch of kids. So I gave the “good girl” answer. “As many as God leads.” After all, if being a mother was God’s will and plan for me, he would change my heart when the time came.

And so began our courtship. There were compromises in our families’ standards. His mother vetoed my idea to teach him to swing dance — something I had learned in a class with my brother after years of being told dancing was evil, and we didn’t do it because we didn’t want to be stumbling blocks for others. She even vetoed the 1830’s dance I was hoping he’d help me teach at a local reenactment. Though my parents allowed us to meet up for a movie or dinner, his were not comfortable with the idea, so we honored that. No dances. No movies. No holding hands. I introduced him to the world of theater. He introduced me to Star Wars and classic rock. We had both come from a strict background, but in recent years our families had begun to loosen the reins and lighten up on some of the nit-picky standards.

In my mind, courtship meant that you were careful to choose your friends and guard your heart. That your families spent large amounts of time together as you got to know a young man. That to agree to a courtship meant, “Yes. I think you might be the person God has for me, and I’d like to get to know you better.” So I was a bit surprised when soon after we announced our courtship, people asked when the wedding date was. His younger siblings presented me with drawings of our future house, complete with separate beds for us. Just after that, they teasingly pulled out a list of our first ten children and what their names would be. It was all in fun, so I played along. We were the only courting (or dating) couple in our church, so we were somewhat of a novelty. Mothers in my homeschool group informed me how happy they were that their daughters got to witness my courtship and two young people “doing it right.” However, from the beginning, things felt mixed. I was treated as though I were an engaged woman, praised for my godliness, maturity, and purity — then regulated and monitored like a seductive child who lacked the self-control to keep herself and her boyfriend pure. The night my boyfriend’s mother made him back my car up for me all the way to the end of their dirt road, was the first I seriously began to question the setup of this courtship. I was perfectly capable of driving my car out myself. And then the family stayed on the porch watching me while I walked all the way to my car. What did she think I was going to do? Steal a kiss? If she didn’t think we were mature enough to ride in a car together to the end of the driveway, how in the world did she expect us to feel like adults and move into an adult world? It angered and embarrassed me, but I let it pass. Parents were just trying to protect their children, though I didn’t understand why they were convinced that two people couldn’t be alone for five minutes without falling into temptation and throwing common sense and a lifetime of commitment to the wayside. Maybe some people couldn’t resist — but at this point, I wasn’t sure I even liked the idea of kissing. Touch, even casual and friendly, was something that I longed for, but felt repulsed by at the same time. And it concerned me. I told my mother I hoped some of the rules changed, and that I could hold his hand before we married, because I couldn’t go straight from no touching to a honeymoon.

During this time I auditioned for a play. Theater was my lifeline. In a world where I felt judged at church, I felt accepted without questions at my theater. They giggled at my quaint ways and moved on. In this show, I had a good chance of getting the lead — a romantic lead — and one of my friends whom I’d grown up with was auditioning as well for the opposite role. I knew my boyfriend had been concerned about our past friendship, so I checked with him before I auditioned, in the event that we both got our wished-for roles. There would be no kissing between us. He said to follow my dreams, and I auditioned, landing a role in the chorus. One night after rehearsal, I discovered that my car wouldn’t start. I was forty-five minutes from home, so my childhood friend offered me a ride. We’d never ridden alone before, but I couldn’t stay in the parking lot so I accepted his offer of a ride. He was telling me about his girlfriend when his phone rang. After a brief conversation with his girlfriend, he hung up, frowning that he thought she might be upset we were alone. My hands shook. Would my boyfriend be upset? By the time we got home, I had debated not telling him — but if he found out, secrecy would make it worse. I was nearly sick, and I could hardly stop shaking enough to dial his number. To my surprise, he assured me he was okay with it. He was glad the friend was there to help, and of course I couldn’t stay alone in the parking lot while my father drove all the way over to pick me up. I hung up, relieved, but a little concerned. We weren’t married. We weren’t engaged. And should I be this terrified of telling my boyfriend I had to do something practical? It had always bothered me that I was discouraged from friendship with boys as a child and youth, then expected to marry one and not maintain any friendships with men afterwards. Was I really meant to spend my life only really getting to know one guy?

On opening night, a dozen white roses showed up on my table, creating quite a stir backstage. That was my boyfriend, and I loved his support. He congratulated me after the show for being the best actress in the world — I didn’t believe him, but happily gave the quick hug we were allowed on special occasions. I discovered later from a friend, that he had missed most of my main scene, and later still my mother confessed that he had actually left during every dance scene I was in — which I realized was every time I was onstage. I thought things were fine, until he wrote me, explaining that it really bothered him when other men touched me — to the point of physical illness. It crushed me. I had dreamed of being a film actress since I was four years old — even though my parents threw out the television. I had dreamed of acting across from my husband since I was a teen and was finally allowed to venture into the world of community theater on a few select shows. I wanted to make good films, and I loved being on stage. But eight bars of music dancing with a fellow actor’s hand on my waist, and I was making my boyfriend ill. It was probably because we weren’t allowed to touch. I could hug all my theater friends with a side-hug goodbye, then had to shake hands with the guy I was considering marrying.

He came the next day and we talked for three hours. I had been battling the question — what do I want? To follow my dream of being an actress, to move to music that was so beautiful it captured my soul and made it soar, to act in Christian films and write novels? To marry a man who held my passion for inspiring people through stories? Or to be the elusive Proverbs 31 woman? To marry, have ten kids and homeschool them while working in the kitchen to make nutritious meals? That was God’s will. That’s what I was supposed to want. The reason I didn’t squeal and run across the room when someone carried a baby in was because I was a defect. I didn’t mind cooking. I was good at it. I liked kids and wanted kids — I just wanted them to be dropped off by a stork at my door. I had given my rights to God many times. I had given Him my dreams over and over again. And here I was in the activity that I loved best in the world — compromising, not my standards, but those of the man who loved me. And there was no easy way out. I could continue giving my hand to other men, allowing their touch — and make my boyfriend ill while he watching, knowing that he had kept all forms of touch for me. Or I could give it up. No more dancing. No more theater — for the idea that I could do a show without any sort of touch was just not possible. I had already lost possible roles over my commitment not to kiss.

When I tried to explain, I watched the hurt fill his eyes. This was why I wanted another actor — someone who understood that you could pretend without being emotionally attached. I didn’t want a man who watched with a queasy stomach from the aisles.

So what do we do?
“I don’t know.”
We both sat. He didn’t want me to give up my dreams. I didn’t want to hurt him.
I broached a subject I had once or twice before. “What if this isn’t God’s will?”
He broke and kept whispering, “It has to be God’s will. It has to be.”
We cried together.

My journal became a war zone where I tried to grow up. I tried to put to death the little girl dreams — I wasn’t that good of an actress anyway. I couldn’t act without giving up my morals, and once we married, I’d be raising a family and too busy anyway. I tried to put to death my fleshly desires as I had been taught. I begged God to take away these desires and help me be sweet and good and not afraid to be a mother or wife. I tried learning more about politics and government so I could support him in his dream. I knew what I needed to be. I just didn’t know how to change my desires to match. I felt like a fraud, but I wanted to serve God and fulfill my life-purpose, instead of demanding my own way. So why was I still having doubts? Like God was telling me to call off the courtship? When I mentioned it to my parents, they encouraged me to pray about it and said they would support me either way. When I mentioned it to my boyfriend, he responded that I was simply scared, and that Satan was scaring me. After all, if it wasn’t right, wouldn’t God have told him, too?

I prayed so.

It was almost Christmas when I sat alone on a dock. Praying that God would speak to both of us with the same thing. Praying I would lose this fear. Then praying, “Why?” Why wouldn’t God tell my boyfriend what he was telling me? If he wanted me to obey, He should make this splitting mutual. If my boyfriend was seeking God’s will, he should realize it wasn’t right either. Or was it me? I’d assumed it was my selfishness ruining the relationship. Refusing to give up worldly desires and step into my God-given role as a woman. Then the answer came: “You must obey whether or not anyone agrees that this is My will.” I consented with tears, but it was the first time in a long time that I had peace. I stopped beating myself up for not being the woman that we spent so much time reading about, discussing, and glorifying. I would never be one of those girls. I was a defect.

The next time I saw my boyfriend was Christmas Eve when he presented me with a violin — the very one I had seen and fallen in love with in a store while with his sisters. It represented yet another suppressed childhood dream. I felt horrible. I couldn’t break up with him on Christmas Eve. The doubts crept in again. What if I was wrong? What if I had imagined the voice? How could I possibly be doing God’s will if I was running from being a wife and mother?

In February, right before Valentine’s Day, my mother spoke to his. They agreed that if I thought it ought to be broken off, it should not be drawn out. I’d wanted to tell him myself — to meet up somewhere, but the very day my mother broached the breakup with his, she made him call me on the phone when he got home from work. He didn’t understand. He wanted to know why. I spent an hour trying to explain what wasn’t clear in my head. I didn’t know how to explain that I felt stifled. That I felt controlled. That I felt marrying and having children and giving up theater and dancing and my dreams was killing my soul. The bottom line was, I could only marry one man — and he wasn’t the one. Nor was I someone who would fulfill his needs and emotions. It wasn’t God’s will that I marry him.

“I can’t do that. I can’t just go back to being friends.”
“I know.” I began to cry, clutching the phone to my ear.
He asked me to change my mind. He asked me to keep him in mind. Then he said he loved me.
He loved me, and I felt like a monster.
I loved him too. I just couldn’t marry him.
He hung up, and I went to my mother and cried for an hour.

So here I was, days later, eating the fruits of my choice and explaining to the children at church that I had never meant to run off their little friends. I was scolded for breaking up with him over the phone — that was something only cowards did. But my mother said she could tell I made the right decision. When I asked why, she answered, “When you were courting, you stopped singing.”

Our church disintegrated soon after that as my father announced that it was time we moved on and began finding real church homes and stopped meeting in a house church. I spent the next two years feeling as though I had a plague.

Forming new friendships was hard. I stepped away from every man who expressed any interest whatsoever, warded off attempts by my family and well-meaning friends to introduce me to another “godly man who is perfect for you,” and spent altogether too much time trying to sort out where I had gone wrong, and how I was to blame for the ruining of so many friendships and lives. I didn’t get over my fear of children. I didn’t find Mr. Right. When I was 23, my parents took a job at a foster home and informed me that I needed to find a place to live. My last vestige of “the good Christian girl” died. I couldn’t honor them by staying home until I married, if they were moving out before I got married. I was completely broken, disillusioned, and questioning who God was and what He wanted from me because I had done everything I thought He wanted.

My close friend began adopting a Calvinistic worldview and though God never let me completely fall away without assuring me that He had freely offered me and anyone else salvation, I was thrown into another world of confusion. If she was right, maybe I just wasn’t one of the chosen ones. Surely if I had been chosen, I would have been able to please Him. But if I wasn’t chosen, how was it that there were times I could hear Him so clearly? That he loved me, even though I was no longer sure of who He was anymore. I completely gave up the idea of being the Proverbs 31 woman stereotype. After all, if you read the passage, it starts with a question, almost sounding as though the mother is lamenting “Who can find a virtuous woman?” I bitterly pointed it out to my sister, telling her I didn’t think they existed. But in Proverbs the picture drawn for me wasn’t a woman with a kid hanging on her apron while she whisked batter in a pan and looked over children writing papers at the table. She was so much more — a woman who made her own decision to buy a field, who observed her merchandise, whose husband and children praised her. She was a woman of strength who were fine (and beautiful) clothing. Silk and purple was much more appealing to me than denim skirts and closed-toed shoes. She was a woman of skill, of wisdom and knowledge who was in authority of others. She was a jewel — not a doormat. She made goals and oversaw their completion, not slaved to put everyone’s happiness and needs in front of her own suppressed feelings. It says she has children but it doesn’t specify how many, and they don’t seem to be a huge part of her job-description. Maybe God didn’t want me to give up these desires as selfish desires of the flesh. Maybe the desires were from Him. Again on that same dock, I sat four years later, praying. And a promise flashed into my mind. Not a Bible verse, not a biblical formula, but a promise from God to me. It started out, “If you are willing to wait for a man…”

And I said yes.

So a man was not to be in my immediate future. What was? A complete revamping of my faith and view of God. The very things I had spent my entire life trying to suppress. A promise that if I wrote a specific script, God would produce that film. Dreams of publishing my novels and creating a publishing company which would help support the fight against human-trafficking. Freedom in struggles I had fought since I was a child. Opportunities to act in theater and even see some of my plays performed. Permission to learn and grow. To make mistakes. To admit my flaws and reach out for help. To deal with deep-seated issues I had hidden from everyone — some that were rooted in sin, but others that developed from a misplaced guilt and fear. From the preconditioning to assume that everything bad that happened to me must be my fault in some way because I was too selfish, or hadn’t given something to God, or had somehow encouraged actions toward myself — without considering that some things in my childhood happened to me because other people were acting out of their own hurts and sin, and I was simply the recipient of human failings.

Most of all, I received a chance to become the woman God wants me to be — not the woman I’ve been told the Bible dictates I should be — and she’s really the woman I wanted to be all along.