This is Chapter 4 of my story about femininity, sexuality, and faith. Read Chapters 1, 2, and 3 first.

In my Spanish 1 class, there was a boy named Daniel.*

Daniel was a smart, redheaded guy who quickly stood out to me. Admittedly, he wasn’t all that physically attractive — largely because adolescence had not been kind to him yet — but unlike all the other boys in my class, who irritated me with their outbursts of immaturity and disrespect, he seemed to have a decent head on his shoulders. He actually cared about learning.

In my book, being the studious, self-righteous snob that I was, such maturity counted for a lot.

Soon, Daniel and I were in constant competition for the top grade of the class (a challenge I gladly welcomed). I was always struck by how much we had in common. We had similar mannerisms, and would glance across the table at each other whenever we accidentally did the same thing — made an identical comment, admitted our love for a specific food, or something else random.

But Daniel was not the only boy at my homeschool co-op I noticed. To my own confusion and embarrassment, I ended up developing crushes on not one, not two, but three boys in the first semester.

This was getting out of hand!

“No,” I decided. This had to stop.

The purest of the pure

I knew there was nothing immoral with having crushes. This was not a matter of right and wrong. But my ring read “True Love Waits,” and I wanted to take that to a new level.

Sure, I could stay physically pure; that wasn’t even a temptation for me. But now, I wanted to stay emotionally pure, romantically pure, and mentally pure.

I wanted to be free of this mindset that anyone I ran into might be The One. I was sick of it. Every time I had a crush, I felt like I was giving away an infinitesimal piece of my heart. There was this tiny spark of hope that said, “This might be my husband one day!”

And in keeping with the principles I’d learned from “Purity Culture” at large, I believed those miniature fractions of my heart were going to waste.

No more.

I envisioned my heart. I imagined sealing it with a hard, impenetrable shell.

Then I prayed: “I’m keeping my heart 100% for you, God. And it’s staying that way until you tell me it’s time to open up again. You tell me when I’ve met him, even if it’s five years from now. Or longer.”

It was done. No more feelings for anyone, I decided, until I met the one man for me. There was no guarantee I could avoid crushes completely… but I was going to try.

A dash of peer pressure

Fortunately, Daniel made this easy for me. In the second semester, his character changed slightly. To my disappointment and thorough disapproval, he started laughing along with the other boys when they disrespected the class or the teacher.

Well then, I thought, turning up my nose: He was just like the others.

Good riddance.

I focused my attention on school, which I was happy to do, and no longer paid much attention to boys. As winter lurched hesitatingly toward spring, in its typical Virginian fashion, a new topic began to buzz among my friends and classmates: Prom.

Unlike public schools, our prom was open to all high schoolers, which meant I could technically attend. At first, though, I wasn’t planning to go. I hated dancing, partly because I was inhibited, partly because I felt awkward doing anything physical with my body, and partly because I’d rather spend an evening reading a book — or sleeping. I didn’t care for loud music and big parties filled with strangers and shallow social interactions.

So, when my friend Gabby asked me over lunch one day if I was going, the answer was simple.

“No.” I continued nibbling on my food.

“Aw, come on!” Gabby made it sound as if I had personally turned her down by choosing not to attend. “It will be fun!”

“I don’t like to dance.”

“You won’t have to dance,” she insisted. “There will be other things to do!” (I was too naive to know that this was a total lie.)

Well, I thought, if I didn’t have to dance…

After giving it further consideration, and encountering a significant amount of social pressure from multiple people, I decided: Okay, okay, I’d go to prom! I might as well see what all that fuss was about.

I had only one fear, as prom drew closer: What if Daniel went, too?

And what if he asked me to dance?

Prom

On the night of prom, I slipped into a new dress I adored (and had found on clearance — thank God!). It was, by my estimation, perfect. Unlike many of the obnoxious “princess” dresses that were popular, this one was simple, with smooth, silky, deep-maroon fabric that fell loosely to my ankles.

The neckline had plunged a little too deeply for comfort, when my mom and I found it at the mall, but she had used a little magic to adjust it to more modest standards.

After my mom fixed my hair and did my makeup, I looked in the mirror… and shied away, turning my face. I didn’t recognize myself.

My dad was going to attend prom with me as a chaperone. A number of parents volunteered for this job, committing to stay for the entire event and keep an eye on us teenagers, to make sure we all behaved. In an Evangelical, purity culture environment, nothing was more suspicious than a mixed-gender group of teenagers dancing and hanging out late at night. Who knew what temptations could occur.

Mom snapped some pictures of me and Dad, looking all fancy together, and we headed out for pre-prom dinner — just father and daughter. I felt exhilarated and somehow unprepared, and had to stare in the mirror for a while, as if it would help me understand what I was headed for.

But I understood a lot less than I thought.

To dance, or not to dance?

I arrived at prom with a prepared response, in case anyone asked me to dance: “I’m only dancing with my dad tonight.”

I was sticking with the So Much More philosophy of being Daddy’s girl until I married. But I didn’t expect anyone would really to ask me to dance, anyway — so I was safe, right?

The prom took place in a stone building with stunning decorations that made me feel like I was in a fairy tale. Purple ribbons trailed along banisters and around thick columns. Sparkling lights criss-crossed above the dance floor.

But most amazing were the people. I found my classmates transformed into elegant princesses and formal tux-wearers.

The first dance had hardly begun when, to my utter surprise, one such handsome tux-wearer — this one a total stranger — held out his hand to me.

“Sorry,” I told him. “I’m only dancing with my dad tonight.”

“Really?” he said, looking very disappointed. “For sure?”

“Yes,” I said, though I was still in shock that someone would actually ask me. Soon, though, as I hung out with one of my friends, a second stranger asked me. My answer was the same. I was totally taken aback.

My friend from American History, Daniella, thought it was sweet I was only dancing with my dad. However, soon she realized I standing there doing nothing. In fact, I was growing increasingly, miserably bored as I realized Gabby’s promise had been a falsehood.

There was nothing. To do. But dance.

And I couldn’t even leave early, because my dad — my ride — was a chaperone!

“Where is your dad?” Daniella said, indignant on my behalf.

“I don’t know. Over there, I think.”

“You need a dance partner,” she said, clearly misunderstanding the situation. “Let’s go to him and I’ll help you convince him to dance with you.”

Well, her prodding worked, and Dad and I waltzed or a minute. I kept messing up, and continually glanced at the floor to correct my footing.

“No, no, don’t look at the floor,” he said. “Just go with the music.”

I tried as he said, and surprisingly didn’t feel uncomfortable at all, waltzing with my father. Even if people were looking.

“See, this is easy,” he said, and let go of me. “Now go and find someone else to dance with.”

What?! We had barely danced for more than a minute! I started to argue with him–

“Has anyone asked you,” he countered, “and you said no?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s your problem. Stop saying no.” And with that, he returned to his duty as chaperone.

I was so confused. Perhaps my dad wasn’t being so protective anymore and understood at this prom, most people weren’t dancing together because they liked each other; they were just having fun. But I set off, still determined not to dance, even as maddening boredom set in.

Is this okay?

As the night dragged by, several more boys asked me to dance. This time, I had a better excuse: I was tired. I wasn’t used to staying up late, and with each passing minute I longed more for my bed.

The excuse was only partially true, though, because I did manage to dance a bit with some of my girl friends — just silly dancing, not partner dancing — even though I felt very uncomfortable and awkward doing so.

Immediately afterwards, I plopped down again. My exhaustion had another, unexpected result: My resolve to avoid partner dancing started to weaken. Maybe I was taking this too seriously.

And the thought of dancing with a charming boy was very desirable.

A familiar question crept into my mind: What if I met my future husband here? Wouldn’t that make for such a sweet story?

After hours of conflicting emotions churning inside of me, confusing me as to where the line was anymore… after becoming unsure what was okay, or how much I even cared what was okay… after becoming disillusioned, perhaps in my sleepiness, or perhaps because I was the only one different, and peer pressure caved me in… something changed.

Something woke me up.

The last dance

Five miserable hours of boredom finally inched toward their completion. Five minutes until midnight, I stared at the clock with relief, yet longing.

Five minutes.

Just five minutes, and it’d be over.

The DJ announced that it was the last song. A slow dance began.

“Come on!” Gabby told me. “You’ve got to dance for at least the last one!”

She was right. “Okay,” I said, standing up. I wandered around the mass of swaying couples, and when I decided there was no one to dance with, I contentedly began making my way back to my seat.

Until I found myself face-to-face with my former crush.

Daniel.

“Want to dance?” he asked.

I couldn’t decline. At this point, it would just be dumb. Stubborn. What on earth could I possibly say to explain my “no”?

I smiled. “Sure.”

“What?” he asked over the music.

“I said sure!”

We stepped onto the dance floor, and I felt very awkward indeed. Who wouldn’t be, dancing with their former crush. I started to put my hand on his shoulder, but in my dance ignorance stammered, “I — I don’t know what to do — I don’t know much about dancing–”

We both knew he was no better off, so he directed me to put my arms around his neck while he put his hands on my waist. “What about like this?”

Our bodies were close — too close — as we clumsily stepped in circles (our best attempt at slow dancing). I was uncomfortable; I could feel his breath on my face every time he talked. We chatted about Spanish and our final exam as we swayed to the music.

When the song ended, Daniel held out his hand and said, “Well, it was a pleasure dancing with you.”

I just shook his hand and smiled. I couldn’t say the same to him. Something felt terribly wrong. For minutes afterwards, it felt like hands were still on my waist.

Renewing the promise

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” I thought. “That feeling, that moment, should have been shared with my future spouse, and no one else. Maybe other people can do that without doing anything wrong, but not me. I’m never going to a prom again. Ever.”

The next day, I vented my feelings and penned a song. Part of went like this:

I’m not gonna split my heart and give it / to people I don’t know. / Till I meet the one who’s waiting / it’s my job to just say no

There’s a lot more / than dancing ‘cross the ballroom floor / with someone who is not yours. / Why dance when you’re not sure?

I’m not gonna do work that isn’t mine / and dance ‘cross the ballroom when it isn’t time. / It isn’t my job to find / the one God’ll bring to me in time.

I was inspired by a Christian novel I’d read about a girl named Millie Keith who made a similar promise and prayer, and God had rewarded her with a beautiful love story. One day, God led her to meet The One, and I knew he’d do the same for me.

In my journal, I wrote the following:

“Here is my promise. Etched in silver on a precious band around my finger: ‘True Love Waits.’ To a man I haven’t met yet, I already promise to love him, to love him alone, to ‘lock up my heart and give God the key,’ like Millie Keith. Like Millie, God I pray, don’t give me back that key until it is time.”

And I believed, quite ardently, that this ridiculous self-suppression would turn out well for me.

I was wrong.

Next: Read Chapter 5.

*Actually, that wasn’t his name. I’m changing the names of some people in this story, lest they happen to read it! Awkward!

Photo credit: Crown image by Church of the King on Unsplash