While making bridal shower invitations this morning for my friend Ginny, I remarked to my roommate that I was writing “Mrs.” more frequently than “Miss” on the envelopes. Marie replied that she imagines it will become an even more common occurrence as the years go by.
Initially my response when reminded of my singleness is a feeling of loneliness. That I’m deprived. Missing out. But as I thought a little harder, I realized something. I am content.
This afternoon I read basking in the warmth of my parents’ fireplace, Ginger’s head resting in my lap. The dog thinks she’s a cat, I swear. A brief respite in food preparation left us waiting for guests to arrive. I was content.
Each year I wonder if it will be the last Thanksgiving I show up alone. The last time I sit and watch football with just Dad and Anthony, where Thanksgiving dinner is just me, Mom, Dad, Anthony, Aunt Shelley, Eva, and Grandma.
Content. I am content. I cannot complain. Being in charge of my accounts, having my own place, my own car, books, guitar, bike(s), furniture, kitchen gadgets. Tomorrow I head up to care for the farm while the Froelichs visit family in the San Juans. I didn’t have to run it by anyone before saying that I’d love to come up and stay. I am so blessed.
Company leaves, the fire is still going, Dad comments, “You know your car is totally bad-ass, right?” Anthony is lying on the floor, stuffed with a bounty of food, flipping through the newspaper. Ginger, having experienced her first Thanksgiving with the Hart family, watches Mom put the food away hoping against hope Mom will drop some on the floor. I feel comfort. Safe. Content.
Now, back in Ballard as I type, figuring what I journaled might be worth sharing, I simultaneously watch one of my favorite movies. Someday I’m totally naming my dog Indiana.The apartment is empty. Marie is down in Vancouver with her family. I am totally alone. And I don't mind it. The introvert in me relishes these moments.
When the Thanksgiving finally comes where I don't show up alone, I won't be complaining, I'm sure. I will be rejoicing about a new life stage. A new adventure. The first time walking down the street holding hands, my first kiss. But I have no desire to rush God.
While shopping for my car, a salesman tried to talk me into looking at a different kind of car. My brother told the salesman bluntly before I could respond, "She knows what she wants. She's stubborn. She won't go for anything else." And I've heard remarks that I'm not just that way with cars.
And the idealist within hopes I don't reach the point of desperation that I'll take someone that won't really make me happy, but is only preferable to being alone. I still can't in my mind reconcile being told, "God has someone for you" with my, "We all have free will and a person can choose to marry the wrong person and thus mess up the entire plan" thought process.
But I don't need all the answers to do what God wills. To serve Him. To serve people. I trust Him.
I am contentedly still a 'Miss Erynn Hart' on those invitations.
