To Be Held

I had a dream last night. A good kind of dream. In it two star crossed lovers found each other in the midst of danger. They clasped their hands together and set their faces against their coming end, intent on weathering it together. My dreaming self could feel their confidence in their complete belonging to one another. They knew that death itself could not dull the resplendence of two people who had found such a gift.

Right as the villain approached for the final battle, I woke, not to war cries and lovers’ flames, but to lonely gray morning light and an ache for connection. Reaching out to the other side of the bed, my hand found only cool sheets, untouched by the heat of another body. Juniper heard my stirring and quickly sidled up for her daily dose of affection. I let her bury her head into my side, a mess of paws and fur and grunts. I sighed at the small relief of touch and the deeper twinge of longing for something more human. 

These are the mornings that feel difficult to talk about. I was taught that I should project feelings of contentment and independence in singleness. To be absolutely Pauline in my resolve that this is actually the best God has for me and to pretend I don’t bristle when someone uses that passage in 1 Corinthians to placate me. There’s room for bad days in close circles, when the utter crushing of loneliness presses in, but then you wipe your face and move on.

Maybe that is why it has always felt too tender to peel back the veil and expose to prying eyes the constant dissatisfaction underlying even my seasons of contentment. To admit that I’m always aware of a shadowy absence of connection, even when that awareness doesn’t sting.

But today it feels untenable to leave it hidden and perhaps you are out there like me, hoping for a bit of that illusive shadow yourself, and praying to God that someone would just open their mouth and talk about it. Well kindred friend, settle in. Maybe we’ll find some comfort together.

My counselor has taught me the mental practice of scanning my body for any physical manifestations of emotions that might be buried deep. A racing heart, tingling hands, a pit in my stomach. I start at the top of my head and work my way slowly downward to my shoulders, my arms, my hands. Then moving down further to my chest and my stomach. Finally reaching down to my legs and my feet, taking stock of each notable sensation all along the way. This morning as I perform my scan, I notice that my limbs are a little too warm under the comforter and my muscles are sore from a workout I did yesterday. Between Texas summers and my erratic attempts at consistent exercise, neither of those is out of place. I thank them and move on. I keep searching and then I feel it: a  small heaviness in my chest. It’s no beast or ravenous void, merely a slight weight over my heart, so familiar to me that it might be Juniper leaning against me, except it isn’t. A weight more akin to lonesomeness than loneliness itself. As my counselor has taught me, I acknowledge it, welcoming its presence into the fullness of reality. I breathe deep, exhale slow, and then I get up.

On these kinds of days, what I long for is someone to say good morning to through sleepy eyes and a still sleepier voice. I long for someone to make decisions with, someone to comfortably brush against as we pass each other in the kitchen at breakfast, someone to call me when I’m out late to ask when I’ll be home. I long to be asked how I am with the space to bare the full weight of honesty in response. I know even in marriage that’s not the reality for many, and it points to the deep need for companionship all of us feel. We were made to be in union with our Creator and each other, and I’m merely experiencing the brokenness of that with the specific flavor of singleness sprinkled over it. But having sampled this particular flavor for nearly three decades - it’s getting a little stale. 

This morning, what I longed for most was the balm of sitting quietly in the arms of a spouse, letting physical touch reach into the spaces that words just sometimes cannot. Letting the pain of sadness meet the medicine of skin. Not an amorous embrace, but a nurturing one. The kind that doesn’t answer to limits of time or shrink from vulnerability. The kind that is simply warm and present.  I wonder what it is like to be held like that.

I place my own hand on my collarbone and make do with rhythmic breathing instead, letting the pressure pf my palm trick my body into releasing the chemicals it needs to feel. 

There is nothing left to do for it so I take my coffee and I sit down to pray quietly, acknowledging again that heaviness as I do. My body still craves a physical embrace, but my soul knows it’s a deeper need, so I invite the Lord in to do the work.

My hand still pressed against my chest, I bring that small weight to him, knowing he can carry it. Knowing that the desire to bare my soul is always available with him. I wrestle with contentment and disappointment. I ask him for a husband, and I surrender to the present reality of my singleness. I confess that Jesus is my perfect bridegroom even while I long for the earthly shadow of a divine marriage. This morning there are no quick fixes, only holy promises and the hope that they’ll be worth the faith I put in them. 

I sit with him for a while like that, letting the ministry of his presence be the only ministry I receive. Letting his written Word be the communication of love I so deeply long for. Letting my sanctified imagination carry me to sit at his very feet. It’s not really enough, and at the same time it is. The tension of alreadies and not yets. 

When I get up I do one more scan. The heaviness is still there, but it’s woven with a deeper peace and a renewed sense of connection to divinity and love itself. 

Perhaps we don’t get the connection we crave physically here on this earth, whether we're married or single and perhaps that’s the point. That our broken longing would draw us to our Great Husband who stands ready to comfort us. Maybe this is what it is to be held. 

“You shall no more be called Forsaken, and you land no more shall be termed Desolate,” the Lord says, “but you shall be called My Delight Is In Her, and your land Married.” (Isaiah 62:3-4)