This is Chapter 7 of my story about femininity, sexuality, and faith. Read Chapters 1 — 6 first.

I saw the boy and his family many times in the next few months.

Here and there, I learned little things about him — examples of his character, personality, and interests — which I hoarded and guarded closely, like a silent dragon clutching treasure in her cave.

I even learned his name.

Charles Atwood.*

It was a strange, but strong and masculine name, evocative of an 18th-century gentleman snatched from the pages of a Jane Austin book.

I was high on excitement for weeks. I found myself smiling into the distance at odd times, my heart soaring.

I knew my future husband! I knew my future husband!!

Every week, I eagerly awaited Sunday, hoping for another interaction, another trinket of treasure.

All of this was fairly normal, for a seventeen-year-old girl caught up in infatuation.

But much of my other behavior, shaped as it was by purity culture, was quite… strange.

Sin

This bit is… difficult to explain.

I accumulated a sense of shame and guilt over nearly every single feeling I had, in regards to Charles.

It wasn’t that I thought it was wrong, in general, to get excited and silly over a boy. But all my impossible standards for purity, and the guilt tangled up in them, made it as though I were walking on a tightrope.

I had this extremely narrow picture in my mind of how a Godly relationship was supposed to form, and of when and how feelings were supposed to blossom.

When my real-life experiences veered away from this mental picture — and they did so in almost every way — my reaction was disgust.

I was giving into temptations of the flesh. This was sin.

I repented for getting excited about church for the “wrong” reasons, and for all my many other minor, self-created infractions.

Stress and fear trailed my every move, my every thought, as I strove to be perfect and pure.

The epitome of passivity

In addition to all my weird, restrictive guilt, there was another strange aspect to my behavior with Charles: My total and utter passivity.

I was heavily shaped by a number of Christian non-fiction books around that time, especially When God Writes Your Love Story and other books by Eric and Leslie Ludy.

From my readings on Christian relationships, and sermons I’d heard growing up, I’d internalized the idea that, as far as romance was concerned, God was going to take care of everything.

All I had to do was trust and follow him, and he would orchestrate a beautiful love story for me.

Also, I’d been immersed in a culture where men (and prospective husbands) were expected to be “spiritual leaders,” and their maturity was partially measured by their ability to take initiative in romantic relationships.

What that all boiled down to was: I didn’t do anything.

I never tried to initialize conversation with Charles. It never occurred to me that I should or could do such a thing! He was the boy; that was what boys did!

I became the epitome of passivity: Waiting for a relationship to happen, by God’s or Charles’ doing. I stood by and merely existed, allowing information about Charles to trickle to me, either by listening to our respective parents talk, or by silently observing him.

As a result, things moved… slowly, you might say. You could also say they weren’t “moving” at all.

But I became long-suffering. This was a slow-burn. This was the story God was telling, and I joyfully waited to see where it would go.

I had waited this long; I could wait a little longer.

Keeping it a secret

There was another side to this so-called “love story” that eventually cast a dark shadow over the experience.

I felt like I couldn’t talk about it — with anyone.

Why? Well, for the exact same reason I believed Charles was my future husband: God said so.

While praying and asking God if I should share what he had revealed to me, I felt a disquiet in my spirit, much like I’d felt a peace in my spirit in response to the question of “Is he the one?”

No, God was saying. Don’t talk about it — not yet.

Looking back, I see all this very differently than I did then. When you equate all your gut feelings with the voice of God, trouble can follow. Sometimes a feeling of discomfort can just be your own anxiety, or embarrassment, or fear.

But I trusted that still, small voice. So, even while bursting with joy and excitement over a massive change in my life, I kept it all to myself.

The problem with major secrets, of course, is that the longer you conceal them, the more they fester. Even a good secret, forever suppressed, can grow heavy and dark. Even positive news, cruelly withheld, can make you sick, like an untreated wound or rotting fruit.

This was, of course, exactly what happened.

The shadow

After several months of bliss, my “love story” took a sudden left turn.

Charles and his family stopped coming to church.

Week after week I looked for them, and they weren’t there. I was terrified to mention it to my mom, to ask if she knew anything, because I dreaded that she might figure out why I asked.

The silence continued for months. My spirits dropped. The first seed of depression took root, like a slow-growing, creeping parasite.

I longed to talk about it with someone. Anyone. My friend. My sister. My mom. I knew, from past experience, that isolation is to depression what oxygen is to fire.

But… that disquiet, that voice of God, still said no.

I had to trust him.

Finally, another feeling appeared in my spirit. I had the strange sense, looking at my calendar, that I would see Charles at church again on a particular day.

So I waited for that day to come around, tense and eager, wondering if my prophetic instinct was true.

The voice of God

The day arrived.

The night before, I’d been restless. Sleep did not come easily. Now as I prepared for church, I felt conflicted.

God hadn’t exactly said that I would see Charles that day… or did he? I felt certain that God had been giving me a message, through songs, through Bible verses I’d read, and through the feeling in my spirit. The message said: This trial would end soon.

But what did that mean? God hadn’t explicitly told me, “You will see Charles today.” Something was about to happen, though. Something had to.

I had the significant sense that if something did happen, it would strengthen my faith and make me even more confident in my ability to hear God’s voice. But if nothing did…

Prophetic fulfillment?

I arrived at church with my mom. I didn’t see the Atwood family in the fellowship hall, or in the sanctuary when we sat down.

But just before worship began, Mom turned to me. “I’m kind of worried about the Atwoods,” she said. “I haven’t seen them in a while. I’m thinking about sending them an email.”

I stared at her, somewhat in shock. I hadn’t heard that name, Atwoods, spoken aloud in three months. The memory was like something from another world. The Mom from that world and the Mom from this world were one and the same?

I faced forward, not looking at her. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering about them, too.”

Worship began, as I still reeled. I realized that was it. That was the change in season God had been predicting. Mom mentioned the family after three months of silence, and vocalized an intent to solve the mystery of their absence.

My torturous state of mind, all the uncertainty and anxiety, was coming to an end.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. I’d never felt more certain in my ability to hear God’s voice — or in the promise of a romantic adventure just around the corner.

Chapter 8 coming soon.

*As with many people in this series, I changed the name of this person for obvious awkward reasons.

Photo credit: Cover photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash.