Estancia.

I don't usually remember such small details, but Estancia was the name of the wine he ordered on the first date, and he recommended it to me. He was dazzling and handsome, with a bright smile. He had a real job that made real money, and he drove a nice car and had his own place. He was faithful and involved in his church community, and he was supportive of my calling in ministry as well. He asked deep questions about life, and we had great conversations. Waiting after work, surrounded by tall silver buildings downtown, in my cute silver shoes, the wind swirling around me until I was practically dizzy, I watched for him to pick me up in his shiny silver car. I thought that made me matter, even though I had a suspiciion that there might be more to me than merely my identity as "girlfriend."

He was refreshingly down-to-earth, with a great sense of humor, but I idolized him and put him So High Above Me. I could never measure up to Mr. So High Above Me: he and his friends were too interesting, too smart, too successful. I tried desperately to make myself good enough, to earn his affection, and I found myself doing weird domestic crap. He took a nap one afternoon, and as he slept, I cleaned his entire bathroom. Disgusting, in so many ways that have nothing to do with the bits of beard trimmings and soap scum.

Mr. So High Above Me possessed himself in a way that I admired greatly, but my insecurity despised him for it. I still trusted his wisdom, and I knew he wanted to take care of me. In a crucial moment of decision in my life, his was the voice that spoke truth to me when he saw me in the depths of discontent and asked, "Why are you doing this to yourself?" I didn't have a good answer, but that question was the one that pointed me home. The relationship was broken soon after that, but something in me at the time let me know that I was in the process of becoming more whole. And I took my first steps on the road home.

A month later, my host mother in Mexico was expressing her gratitude to my roommate and me for the friendship we'd shared in her home during the weeks of our stay, which was beautiful. I didn't understand everything she said, but I heard the word estancia, and I remembered that sweet wine. Turns out, the word means "stay," as in, a safe place to stay on a journey. Her home had been a safe place for me, and as my eyes grew teary, I thanked God for the temporary safe place I'd been granted with that former boyfriend, that man with a beautiful heart, something like Moses who led me through the wilderness to my own Promised Land, but couldn't go there with me.

Last weekend I enjoyed a lovely evening and an exquisite dinner at a restaurant called Estancia, with friends new and old. That word doesn't pain me like it used to; now it makes me smile. For a while, I thought an estancia, a safe place to stay, was my only hope at being safe on the perceived perilous journey home. These days, however, home comes with me wherever I go, and the journey itself, like fine wine, is something to be savored along the way.

Single folks need good news.

A friend of mine ended an engagement, and I wrote this sermon for her:

There is not enough support in our society for women who are alone. Everywhere we turn--and I'm including myself here, of course--there's another reminder that we're supposed to be in a relationship with a man. It's in the recipes that come into my e-mail inbox with ideas about "Meals for Two," or on web pages with relationship advice, or in advertising for almost anything--wear pretty underwear and please your man! Make yourself beautiful with this lipstick and impress your man! Or any ad that begins with the premise "guys love it when..." And every song on the radio is about love (or at least sex) between a man and a woman. But those are just the public examples--there is plenty of anecdotal evidence within a person's own life to support a fully-developed psychosis. Are your friends getting married? Talking about their weddings, their registries, their marriages, their relationships, their kids, etc.? Is single life every affirmed? EVER?

Is anyone allowed to be okay on their own? Is there a sanctuary from all this crap?

I'd like to say there IS a sanctuary, and it ought to be no farther away than the nearest church, but unfortunately, the church doesn't know what to do with single people, either. There are couples groups, support for families, and while these things are important and worthwhile, how often are there groups for single people? And when pastors are preaching, how often are they using their own marriages and families as illustrations of some eternal truth? That truth may well exist, but when are people valued just for being children of God? Salvation doesn't come through marriage or having a family--salvation comes through Jesus Christ. We come into the world naked and alone, and we die alone (maybe not naked, but who knows). We come into Christian community as individuals in baptism, but with the support of a whole community. We celebrate the sacrament of Holy Communion, the very presence of Christ in our gathering, with a whole group of people. At no point are people more valuable when they are coupled--we have value as individuals, and as individuals within a community. Why doesn't anyone ever bring up that Jesus said so little to married couples, seemed to do very little ministry among the married people? But you know who Jesus goes straight toward, almost all the time? It's the people who are vulnerable: the sick, the children, the demon-possessed, the elderly, the ones who have been cast away. I think single people can be included in this group--widows and orphans are mentioned a lot in Scripture, and it makes sense, but these days, any single people could be included.

Here's what I'm saying: Jesus came for us, too. Let's not pretend like marriages or relationships are the ticket to salvation, to happiness, to fulfillment. This is simply one way to live. But living alone? That's a legitimate way, too: as beloved children of God.

Dating tip: Don’t bring your dog

I had nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon, and I know myself: if I don’t have a plan to leave the house at some point during the day, inertia sets in, and following that, I get really bummed out. So when Mr. Good Time called in the morning to set up a date for that afternoon, even though I’d learned through hard experience not to accept last-minute dates, I decided this was fine. It probably wasn’t going to go well, anyway, but at least I’d get out of the house.

We met at an outdoor patio of a coffee shop by the lake. Lovely scenery, lots of people lounging around outside—perfect for a first meeting with a stranger. I was surprised when I saw he’d brought his dog along, a big Golden Retriever. I don’t normally like dogs, but this one was surprisingly chilled out and lounged happily under the table while Mr. Good Time and I proceeded to have the most boring and painfully awkward conversation possible. This exchange actually took place, and remember, I’m meeting a stranger here:
Me: Since you’re not from here, what made you move to Austin?
Him: You.
Me: What? You just met me!
Him: I just had a feeling.
Me: Um, no, for real…

The best part of the whole date was when he left the table to get us some coffee, leaving behind his dog, who was plenty nice. He’d also left behind his Wall Street Journal, which I don’t usually read, but was glad for an opportunity to check it out and pick up some investing tips along the way. Unfortunately, he returned to the table and the conversation had to continue. Meeting strangers has made me a pro at small talk.

I had plans later that evening to attend a birthday party, and the birthday boy wasn’t even really my friend, so if this date had gone well, I would’ve blown off the party completely. But as this date was on a speeding train to Nowhere, the party was looking better and better. So I began the polite “I need to be going” dance, and Mr. Good Time invited me to the dog park with him and his dog. I had to decline, but thanks for a lovely afternoon, nice meeting you, blah blah blah. As we were standing up to shake hands, I looked down and noticed the dog was standing, too, under the table. The dog seemed to be having a problem; its sides were heaving. To my horror, the dog started puking right there on the wooden deck of the coffee shop, entirely too close to my feet, ill-protected from dog puke since I was wearing flip-flops. It looked like diarrhea. Of course, Mr. Good Time was horrified—properly so, as far as I’m concerned—and since I didn’t know what to do for the dog or for the situation and I was completely grossed out and I REALLY NEEDED TO GET GOING TO THIS VERY IMPORTANT PARTY, I just walked off. I wished them both the best.

I thought, I live in a city. There’s no way I’m going to see this guy again. Wrong. I was with another date, walking around the lake downtown, when I saw Mr. Good Time there, too, walking his dog. He actually stopped to say hello. “How’s your dog?” I asked. Good, good. Mr. Good Time said he was moving to Canada the next day. Have a nice life! I said. But a few months later, I was on another date when I saw Mr. Good Time again, downtown. Did he move to Canada after all? I don’t really care. But I do know that either I have been on too many dates, or this town is way too small.

Clearly, I’ve gotta get out of here.

UPDATE: The Best First Date Ever was recently eclipsed by The Best AND FUNNIEST First Date Ever...more later...