You never know.

“I’m getting married next year,” I said. It was 2005, and I was leaving Tokyo, where I’d been living for the past two and a half years, where I’d been—as far as I could tell—wasting my time since I hadn’t dated anyone while all of my closest friends had gotten married or engaged. I was not going to be left out of this rite of passage. Marriage is something grown-ups are supposed to do; I needed to prove that I’d grown up. It was time to collect the gifts bestowed upon those who grow up and get married: the nice towels, the real plates, the fancy bedding, the beautiful china, the strong spoons that don’t bend in half when you go to scoop the ice cream. Besides, upon returning to the States, I would enter a four-year seminary program and eventually become a Lutheran pastor, and I didn’t think I was called to serve the church by myself; I needed a partner. It’s right there in the creation story: God created man and woman to work together. I was prepared to receive what I rightfully deserved. I mean, society ordains it and God made it that way, right? My only goal was to be faithful, and God would provide the right man. Bible stories proved me right, romantic comedies proved me right, everyone else’s experiences proved me right. My two best friends had married each other the year before; we’d all been friends for a long time before a romance developed rather quickly between the two of them. “A lot can happen in a year,” my friend told me. “You never know.”

Darn right, you never know, I thought. Which is why I told everyone I would be married in a year; no one could tell me for certain that it wouldn’t happen, because they didn’t know. So as I left Tokyo, I told my English students and fellow church members that we’d see each other soon, at my wedding the following year. The inevitable following question, “To who?” never threw me off. The “who” or the way I would meet him was of little importance to me; I just knew it would happen, because I had faith that God would provide. “I’m getting married next year,” I told people I met when I started seminary. I told my family. I told my friends, and I continued developing the standard wedding narrative with the delightful courtship, the perfect proposal, and the glorious marriage ceremony with the beautiful wedding gown, the dramatic march down the aisle, the bridesmaid dresses, the triumphant exit of the bride and groom. Then, afterwards, the reception with the meaningful song and the teary first dance between Mr. and Mrs.--whoever, it didn't matter, I was ready to surrender myself to a new name, a different identity. I prayed and told God, over and over, “I’m getting married next year.” I made a great case for myself, and everywhere I looked, no one disagreed with me. Why shouldn’t a young, beautiful, faithful, intelligent, well-traveled woman be getting married and living happily ever after?

The moral of so many stories is that if you really believe in your dreams, if you really believe and work hard for your dreams, they’ll come true.

That is also the moral of this story.

Although the casualty in this story is that dream. It had to die. A long, slow, spectacularly painful, embarrassingly ugly death.

But don’t be misled. The heroine still lives happily ever after.

And more than that: a life abundant.