Jesus reassured his disciples that their mourning over his impending death would turn into joy, like a mother with her newborn (John 16).
This post on Momastery spoke to my heart like a friend who gives you a bear hug when you haven’t even told them what’s the matter. I was unofficially a single parent long before my divorce was finalized. Three military deployments nested among years of sharing a home with someone who methodically trudged through the motions of day-to-day life meant that the decision-making, crisis-dealing, boo-boo-kissing, parent-teacher-conferencing and discipline-implementing duties usually fell to me (along with just about anything else that needed cleaned, fixed, cooked or paid).
I’m not bitter about love. I’m actually quite a romantic at heart and would thoroughly enjoy being swept off my feet by someone who is as smitten about me as I am about him. Do you know the last time I went on a date when I didn’t have to decide when and where to go? Me neither, come to think of it. I’m not a control freak; I’m just the only freaking person willing to be in control, historically speaking. I would like the opportunity to hand over the reins to someone someday and make cooperative decisions instead of bearing the burden single-handedly. I am a leader, but that doesn’t mean I should always have to lead. I want a partner, a sounding board, a teammate. I want to be challenged — not in a confrontational way, but in a way that spurs me on to become more like Christ. I want the type of love that says non-verbally, “I enjoy your company, no matter where we are or what we’re doing.” Heck, I don’t even need flowers or chocolate*; a simple text or email out of the blue is enough to put a sloppy grin on my face for hours. (*However, a bottle of wine wouldn’t hurt now & then.)
All that said, I also think it is wise to guard my heart from unnecessary aches & pains. For that reason, I’m planning to go off the grid tomorrow and avoid looking at Facebook, Twitter & Pinterest because I don’t need to be bombarded with mushy-gushy Valentine’s Day posts about everyone’s picture-perfect relationships with their doting husbands and boyfriends. Gag me with a spoon and drown me in chocolate; the last thing a single parent needs is to have her situation rubbed in her face. Anticipating all of the lovey-doviness tomorrow helps me to understand a little better now what a childless friend once told me she felt like on Mother’s Day.