Lucky & Friend - glossy-haired agents of beauty and redemption.
He said no.
Polite and bashful, standing in front of the Granada apartments on View Road with a stretch of blue and red rubbish bins in front of us, he told me how much our friendship had meant to him. "There were times where I felt like it carried me," he said. "But I want to be transparent - I see you as just a friend."
I thanked him, honestly. In both content and delivery, it was a masterclass of a rejection. He was gentle and kind and we managed to talk lightly of what was coming up in our weeks afterwards. He leant in for a hug; I reached up to crook an arm around his shoulder.
I made it around the corner before pulling over to cry. I didn't bother wiping the tears away, just gripped the steering wheel and sobbed. I knew it was all going to be okay, but I also knew that sadness had unpacked her bags for a while.
I sent off a few breezy texts to the friends who knew about the situation. "All good!" I typed as I cried. R read beneath the exclamation mark and called immediately. She let me sob softly into the phone and invited me over to her place. I thanked her, but politely declined. The best thing for that night, I knew, would be to head home and prepare for the next day. Twenty-two small children were waiting to meet me the following week. They needed name-tags and get-to-know-you games and lesson plans.
That night, I slept for three and a half hours. Jolted awake at 2:30, I felt the sting all over again and turned in the dark, soaking my pillow from new angles. "I trust you," I told the Lord. "But I am so disappointed."
I knew he understood.
***
It's been three days and my mind has turned to spaghetti. I keep grabbing holds of strands of thought only to have them slip from my grasp a moment later.
Some strands are good and true and helpful. I love you, I love you, I love you, I hear the Lord whisper. I try desperately to hold onto it as I brush my teeth. I feel it slip down the sink as I spit and rinse.
Other strands echo old fears. It's because of your body, one hisses. No-one has ever wanted it before, why would he now? This strand lingers a little longer on the fork.
Why? is a strand I keep picking up. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? I remind myself that his reasons for rejecting me are none of my business. I could drive myself crazy wondering if it was because I'm not X enough or too X. I could probably solve one of those equations for X, but what would be the point? Whatever mysterious alchemy is required to make a romantic relationship work, some key component was missing for him. Pinpointing it would only lead to further heartache for me.
Dolly Alderton's Good Material provides another recurring strand.
"Reasons why it's good I'm not with Jen: she didn't want to be with me."
Reasons why it's good I'm not with D: he didn't want to be with me.
***
I have to go through it, of course. In heartache as in bear hunts, we can't go under or over -- we have to go through.
I'm caught off guard by tears. I cry at night. For the first time ever, I cry in my classroom. I'm fighting back tears in a seminar on how to support ELL students. I've cried on almost every car trip.
"I just wish my story were different," I croak to the Lord while driving this afternoon. "I so wish it were different."
I don't know why I have been single for twenty-seven years. I would give almost anything for this not to be the case. But as Tish Warren writes in Prayer in the Night, "we don't choose our preferred crosses."
This particular cross is not one I understand. Despite this, along with Tish, I "[dare]... to believe that there is blessing in the fact that I don't decide these things." Pain and suffering are, of course, not original features of God's good creation. But they are means through which I can experience kinship and closeness with Jesus, who was no stranger to either.
This particular bout of rejection is the first one where the gentle voice of the Lord, affirming my value and worth and lovability, has drowned out other more sinister voices. This is progress. This is grace.
***
Beauty helps. It doesn't tie everything up "in a nice metaphysical bow," as Tish says, "but sometimes it is enough to get [me] through the hour."
Yesterday, I went for my usual walk around Monte Cecilia park. I paused to cry multiple times, sometimes slowing my walk to breathe in between waves of tears. The dogs were happily oblivious. Their owners offered distracted smiles.
On my second lap, I sat on a bench near the base of the big bowl. A Golden Labrador appeared in front of me. He was reading a plaque near a tree, more engrossed than his owner, who was gently trying to tug him along. In a moment, however, he was dragged from his literary pursuits by his kin: another Golden Labrador puppy who had tackled him in greeting. The dogs rolled around in the grass. They paused and stared at each other. Rolled again. Paused to stare. Pawed at each other again. I couldn't help but laugh as I watched them. Their fur was so soft, their tails so committed to showing their delight. They were completely happy in one another's presence, and for a moment, so, too, was I in theirs.
At that moment I thought: yes, this week has contained one of the more painful experiences I've had in recent memory. But the sun is still out at 8:30pm, the trees in the park continue to tower over me and Golden Labrador puppies are delighting in each other in the summer-length grass.
It's enough to keep me walking.
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