Tears of Joy

October 21^st, I found myself crying in a parking lot — but in a good way.

Let me explain. I’m twenty-seven, chronically single, female, and what we’ll generously call “a hopeful romantic”. I watch shows like My Happy Marriage unironically. I pray for my future husband’s wellbeing (because he is obviously in some kind of witness protection program right now). I imagine one day being someone’s loyal and loving Samwise Gamgee, which gives really strong, “tell me you’re single without telling me your single” energy. Of course, whoever this man is, he is sure to have beautiful dark skin and wear knickerbockers with billowy white pirate shirts, because (probably) he used to be a golden age pirate before finding Jesus. Or… maybe because he’s a farmer. Or… a newsboy who traveled here from the 1920s.

Some girls suffer after breakups with ice cream and girlfriends—I prefer to get my suffering done up front. If an attractive, God-fearing, single man says 'hello,' my face might just take on shades of tomato. Worse, I flirt with all the grace of a Victorian lady having a medical emergency. God have mercy on everyone involved, or we'll all need laudanum and leeches.

With this context, we may proceed.

Recently, while reading George Müller's biography, I was struck by how he clung to the verse: "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you." Am I spending my moments, my hours, my days seeking God's kingdom first? Or am I scrolling through some mental Pinterest board and thinking that God's kingdom comes along with it?

... Fatherly love

On the morning of October 21st, I watched my father with his friend who has dementia. Dad takes him out several times per week—gym, coffee, anywhere to maintain connection. I saw my father’s patience as his friend asked the same question for the fifth time. I saw his gentleness. His kindness. Here was a profound picture of love—not romantic, in many ways unable to be reciprocated, but faithful and true.

An hour later, during discipleship with the worship leaders of my church, I shared my struggles about trusting God with my singleness. These young, married men met me with genuine brotherly love—they made me laugh, gave honest advice, and prayed over me with deep care.

Walking to my car, it hit me: I'm surrounded by wonderful men who care about me in ways completely unrelated to my attempts to attract dates with discussions on Macquarie Island cabbage and possible explanations for the existence of the Loch Ness monster (who is definitely real, and probably a plesiosaur).

... Brotherly love

I have my best friend (who is wise enough to advise me, “save the doublet enthusiasm for date two”). My brother (who may occasionally roast me with words but would dive into a burning building if I were actually getting roasted). My father modeling sacrificial love. My pastor. My worship team brothers. Besides a physically romantic element, I’m drowning in love.

So, I began to cry.

It's hard to persist in feelings of dissatisfaction and disappointment when you are overwhelmed by joy and gratitude. I get so fixated on what I lack—a man who’ll pretend not to notice when I walk into a door frame because he smiled at me—that I miss the brotherly, fatherly, friendly, masculine love already surrounding me. Maybe seeking first the kingdom of God means recognizing that some of the kingdom blessings are already here. And it seems that when I recognize that, it’s enough to make me cry.

Tears of joy, that is.

Just another one of my dad who is awesome.