Promised vs. Engaged

Note: The promise ring I reference in this writing is in reference to a place holder for an engagement ring, not the promise/purity ring worn to demonstrate sexual purity prior to marriage.


Over the past few days my mom and I have had some interesting discussions involving this trend in relationships that I have noticed becoming pronounced amongst my friends. I do not know if anyone else is observing this particular phenomena amongst couples, especially Christian ones, but I find myself wary of the consequences it may bring. It is yet another affect of our dating relationships that I, personally, believe will prove more harmful than helpful. It grants the feeling of security and commitment when it, in actuality, puts full commitment on a stand still, satiating the feminine party and allowing the men to continue to build gumption enough to ask the all important question, on bended knee. It is a way to test the waters and suss out the possibility of rejection. It is the definition of actuarial science: probability, statistics, and assessment of risk. It is ridiculous. It is this idea of the "promise" ring, or in my family's derisive vocabulary "engaged to be engaged."

Promise rings, historically, have been a tradition, possibly beginning as early as the Middle Ages. These rings were, generally, given from a man to a woman with whom express intention of marriage was being made, but the money to wed or the financial stability to keep a wife was lacking without a man's commission. Ability to wed was entirely financially driven and matches were often subject to the approval of family or wealthy patrons. No physical contact of any kind was allowed prior to the wedding and couples engaged to be married were under strict supervision, unlike today's relational culture. Promise rings, however, were a statement of engagement with the idea that a wedding ring or a wedding was the thing that could not be afforded.

The trend I see amongst my friends and fellow believers, however, is a corruption of the original intention of the promise ring: its use a place holder for engagement, hence a ring stating we are engaged to be engaged. It is a ring that signifies that a man loves you and plans to marry you, but who has not yet proposed. It is something given, with the expectation of a proposal and proper ring soon to follow. That, right there, is the problem. It is commitment without commitment. It is the binding of yourself to another person, but not officially because he has not formally asked for your hand. It is an outrageous notion.

I believe that this practice causes great harm. It leaves people in a state of waiting. I do not believe in waiting, unless it is a very good reason. I am sorry, but a man is not one of those good reasons. He can either propose and make it official to everyone that you ARE getting married or not. There should be no in between, no ring saying I am going to propose soon. No! You can propose or you can leave. Those should be the two choices. I am not suggesting that at the time he presents you with a promise ring you should leave him. I am saying that he needs to understand, upfront, that you have expectations and a promise ring is not one of them. You want a proposal, a wedding, and to be married...to him. A promise ring practically declares the inevitable, so I do not understand why it is in practice in the first place. Most of my friends who had promise rings got engaged within the following six months and are now married, others are expecting an engagement any week now. Why not just skip the promise ring all together?! If you know you're going to propose, spending money on a promise ring is uncalled for, I don't care if you believe it to be romantic.

Ladies, do not compromise. I hate it when people say, "Ladies, don't settle." We all settle. Everyone settles. People that don't settle on one person are called man-whores or players or easy women. So telling us women not to settle for the best man is ridiculous. What we should be saying is DON'T COMPRISE. Do not you dare compromise your values or your beliefs or who you know yourself to be and what you want out of life. If you refuse to compromise, you will be able to settle down with a man who is at your level and you won't be "settling" for someone less. Time to remove that tired and treacherous statement from all vocabulary, particularly believers' conversations, once and for all.

This is why I refuse to compromise on this notion of promised vs. engaged. Promised is now the precursor to engagement. It is an unnecessary and toxic middle step. You have to be able to move on with your life, to take the next step, especially because my friends, my age are marrying. We are still young, promise rings and the waiting for the proposal keep both parties stagnant. It lets men take more time. If they don't know if they are ready to marry when they offer you a promise ring, they should not be giving you one. That is why it is so damaging. It still gives him time to decide when to you that ring screams that he already knows and you have found your "One" (another myth I won't get into here).

Do NOT compromise. Promise rings are silly. I believe they have two exceptions to their use and only two: #1) a military relationship, in which the boyfriend is deployed or #2) a relationship where distance outside of military deployment is an issue. In these circumstances I believe the ring should be one the man already owns, not one he purchased--that is an engagement ring--and that ring signifies, "I will come back for you." It is a promise to come back, not a promise of proposal.

Promising to propose is hollow. Promising to marry is significant. You can begin making plans together, you can begin having those more difficult more intimate conversations. You can begin building a life in the same direction. A promise ring means none of that. Promises can be broken just like engagements are, but to treat a promise ring with equal weight of an engagement ring is treading water indefinitely. People have drowned for less. I don't want you to be one of them.

I know I may have offended some of you, perhaps even more of you than I realize. I know I have some friends who are currently promised and waiting on their own proposals that may become quite upset at my words. I only say them because I love you and I have seen how we date and the damage it causes and how fallen we are and how we complicate relationships more than we have to. I think promise rings complicate relationships. They are meant to be temporary: the dog-tags given back to the sailor when his ship returns from sea; the ring given back to the man who travelled abroad for six months for work or school or adventure but came back to pursue you, like he promised. He kept his promise it is time to move forward.

Perhaps together, perhaps apart.

But, you have to move forward. You have to keep living your life. You cannot spend it waiting. If you spend your life waiting without owning your expectations, I fear you will always be waiting. I want you to chase the life God has planned for you and I want you to run wild within the boundaries of that, with faith like a child and an awe and wonder that is so often lost as we get older. I want you to find someone who can run wild with you, who can pursue their own calling while supporting yours and you supporting theirs. I want you to experience sacrificial love, but not like this. Not by sacrificing on the words and glitter of a promise. Sacrificial love is a vow, overcome by death, hardened in the line of failure, and ultimately triumphant. It does not fear the peaks or valleys. It steps out in faith, in courage, in union.

Do not compromise. Do not lose yourself waiting for the proposal and planning your future around that expectation. Live the life God gave you and continue to live it with the person you love, the person who makes you laugh, the person who believes in you and what God has set in place for you, the person who makes you feel most like yourself, the person who reveals yet another side of God you may not have seen without them.

Keep focus on the vow, it protects its promises.

Expect a man to own to it.

Allow God to protect you from the ones that won't, until He introduces the one that will.

Protect your hearts, sisters. For the heart is a muscle and therefore, cannot be broken, but crushed.

A worthy man will ask on bended knee, not give a promise stating his intent to do so.

Untangle the deceptions. Lighten the burden. Increase communication. Lessen the heartache.

Never forget He loved you first. Never forget His love is perfect. Never forget you belong to Him.

You're a Virgin?! Why?

My first exposure to the notion that I was sheltered came my freshman year of high school. Not only had my family moved 3/4 the way across the country (Washington to Pennsylvania), but I was contending with high school students I did not know how to handle. I was the oddity, that girl that had moved seven times. "Is your father military?" is always the question I get, even now at 22 years old. Families do not tend to move around a lot, at least not the ones I now found myself immersed in. It was the opposite of families I was raised with.

My father works in nuclear waste clean-up and nuclear power plant construction--when one job is done it is on to the next. The average is about two and a half years, three is we're lucky. The fact that we have had the same Pennsylvania address for eight years is outrageous. Perhaps I should insert a caveat with that: it is not for lack of trying. We were supposed to move after I graduated high school, but that never happened and I returned to Colorado for three years of university after having resided there a decade previously. My most complete memories begin with the three and a half years of my life in the Rockies.

The commonwealth of Pennsylvania, however, is structured differently, especially my regionally famous high school, which I hated for the first two years of attendance. I was picked on for being the ferocious animal rights activist (yes, I was that girl...) as classmates placed pictures of butchered wolves in my notebooks and slaughtered horses in my textbooks. I gained my first non-familialy designated nickname, because I don't know you well enough to tell you those (and if I do, we'll talk sometime): freshman. The junior and senior girls on my bus called me that. So did one of the theater girls.

My parents sounded overbearing to all of them. I never went to parties. I left Washington without telling this one basketball player that I "liked" him and did not call him when he wrote his number in my yearbook the week prior to my cross-country jaunt. I never did drugs or smoked (my father threatened to disinherit me if I did). I never swore worse than utilizing "crap." Outside of a sip of Budweiser at six (disgusting, my father declared he would never have to worry about me in high school), some Don Pérignon for finishing unpacking our house in PA, and a taste of peach schnapps my father poured into his orange juice at dinner one night my junior year, my first experience with alcohol was on my 21st birthday, which left some people I attended Christian university with, mystified. I had never slept with a boy, let alone kissed one, which has not changed.

The girls called me "freshman" because I had freshman morals. I did not do anything I was suppose to do in high school, like rebel. Clearly, these girls did not understand my idea of rebellion. Moving all over growing up makes running away appealing--rebelling is not always sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. As these girls graduated, however, their conversations grew distant. I disliked their stories of hooking up with their brother's roommate when they drove up for a weekend visitation at his college (what they did not realize is that his brother's roommate or friend won't exist like that if he ever finds out). I disliked hearing how not being easy made me worth less, that my lack of experience defined me.

It was never a difficult decision for me growing up. My cousin had a promise ring, vowing her virginity until marriage and I grew up respecting her approach to men, even the confidence she possessed in telling some guys to walk on because they made her sick. She married when I was in middle school and her fiancé said that in the weeks leading up to the wedding he grew anxious because he wanted nothing more than to remove her promise ring and hurl it at the wall across their honeymoon suite. As I am now a decade older than I was then, I can say that I greatly appreciate that imagery and would very much like my husband one day to actually do something similarly dramatic in deed and not just in word. I would, however, like my ring back, so it cannot go down a drain or out a window or get fed to the dog.

The first, outright, challenge to my promise ring (which is a classic silver band on my left ring finger) came the summer after my sophomore year. It was during a poetry seminar at a two-week writing institute I attended every summer. The only guy in my group brought up my ring and I explained that it was my promise to God, myself, my parents, and my (future) husband, that I will only sleep with him when we are married. Immediately, he declared my promise unrealistic and impossible to achieve so it was a waste of my time even attempting such a feat. "You won't make it to the alter a virgin," he insisted. "It cannot be done." I explained that my cousin had and she was happily married. He brushed it off, "She must have lied. No one can do it." The conversation spiraled from there. One of my friends tried to defend, explaining that it was my choice and she found it admirable I stood up for it. He would have none of it, "Even if you date a super duper Christian guy, you won't make it." Even looking back on that conversation from six years ago, I firmly believe he won our argument, even if he truly didn't. I viewed it as a loss because no matter what I had said, his opinion never changed. He called me crazy and fool-hardy and said he won't be surprised when I have multiple partners before getting married. I climbed into my mom's car twenty minutes later crying. I had never defended my purity before and I believed I had been steamrolled.

I have gotten a lot better since then. I have friends that believe the same as I do and we encourage one another. I have met many stand-up men, both Christian and non, and my faith is not utterly shattered by these conversations that whomever I marry will expect more of me than what I am prepared to give. As one of my favorite abstinence speakers said, "No ringy, no dingy." I cannot help but laugh at the crass, but utter truth of that statement. Just because I have found a solid foundation does not mean my views go unchallenged. In Christian circles, the perception is married or virgin upon sight of my ring, a quick question eliminates the first option. In non-Christain circles, the assumption is engaged or married, followed by shock at the actual meaning, often genuine confusion.

Back in the fall I had a conversation with a coworker, a man who perceives himself as God's gift to women physically and in all aspects of the bedroom because he is adventurous. You do with that information what you will, I am not elaborating more than that. He asked about my ring and I explained, which some people think is my first mistake, but I am not ashamed of what it stands for. If men know upfront they are either going to respect my decision or be completely bitter. It narrows down your options, and trust me, what you have left is where you should be looking in the first place. He asked why, outside of my faith, what practical reason could possibly exist for such an exception. The basis of his logical argument was this, "If you don't sleep with a man before you marry him, how will you know if he's bad in bed? You're just setting yourself up for lousy sex the rest of your marriage. That's why us atheists introduce sex into relationships (pardon his sweeping generalization that all non-believers are loose). We want to make sure we're compatible before we make a larger commitment to each other." Clearly, his interaction with virgins are limited, if not singular to me. My only rebuttal to this flawed argument, "If I have never slept with any man, but my husband, how would I know he's bad in bed? I would have no one to compare him to. And besides, isn't that a piece of the fun of being married? Even if it is, what you call "bad sex," it won't stay that way. Trust me."

Regardless of the fact that when I work with him he still seems unsure what exactly to do with me, since he cannot talk about his sexual exploits, his opinion on the matter has not changed. Neither has mine. So, to answer everyones' questions: Yes, I am a virgin. Yes, I am proud of that. No, you will not be able to change my mind. Is there fear associated with my honeymoon? Of course, but I have also never had a serious relationship (or really even a non-serious one) and if I were dating the man I am to marry, I trust that God will grant me serenity. I have been told that security like that overcomes fears we cannot even imagine living without. Is it a struggle? For me, a lot of time, no, but other times the worry over whether or not I will die a virgin overwhelms me. It is irrational, but I don't think I want to leave this earth without experiencing the most original human bond created by God. To say that I would feel cheated, even at 22, is an understatement.

And yes, some days the thought of sleeping with a guy sounds wonderful, I admit it, freely. I'm not perfect. I don't want you to think I'm this unblemished little flower. I find men attractive and thereby, distracting, just like any other woman. But it is a constant reminding and realigning of the goal: unity in marriage, without intrusion. Honor to God and my parents because I had the courage to stand up to everyone who said I'm crazy, that it's impossible for me to make it to the alter a virgin, and that even dating a wonderful Christian man is not enough.

And now, six years later, I understand the flaw in my very first conflict over purity. Everything he said reflected human will-power and self-control. We have them and demonstrate these skills, but they are intrinsically corrupted. I understand that I cannot do this alone. I understand that this is something I share with Deus. I understand that the support of my friends and family, including men, makes all the difference.

What you need to understand is that my decision is none of your concern. That was my mistake: believing that he had won an argument that he had no stake in. He just wants to see me fail.

When you have some stake in my purity, you can come and talk, but otherwise, you can stop asking, "Why?" It's a tired question and I will give you the same answer every time because, in the end, it is between me and God, it has never been between me and you anyway.

When Words Fail

“And without faith it is impossible to please him, for whoever should draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.” Hebrews 11:6

It was the spring of my sophomore year and I spent a lot of time in the secretary’s office at my college. She had an incredible sense of humor and she made everyone feel lighter, even when the burdens of life weighed us down. She was my sounding board and I discussed everything with her. Her interns always chimed in with their thoughts and perspectives.

On this particular day, I was asking for advice on my testimony. I had never formally shared it and now the group I met with once a week had asked me to be the testimony of the night. I did not know where to begin. Should I give a quick overview of my life and then testify from my current struggles and how my youth leader’s suicide had quickly unraveled the people around me? Or, should I talk about my life more whole picture? I was at a loss.

One of the interns looked at me and offered, “Well, Sheridan, you could do that, but you could start at your conversion moment too. That way everyone understands how you came to Christ and you can proceed from a common ground.” Unfortunately for her, I do not have a conversion moment. I was raised in the Church and do not remember a time where I did not know Christ as Savior and Son of God. My faith has grown more personal since high school, but I have never not believed. It was half the reason I was struggling, I did not know where to start. The secretary made some suggestions, but her intern appeared dumbfounded. The only thing she said, “I’m sorry, Sheridan, but I think it’s kind of sad you don’t have a conversion story.”

Words. Spoken in that moment. Destructive. Words--fallen just like our nature.

Language is one of the most powerful tools we possess as humans. It enables us to communicate with one another across unspeakable barriers. Words, though, have this double-edged tendency to be both our greatest achievement and our greatest downfall.

One simple statement, spoken without malice, passed judgment on my worthiness to offer my testimony, but further than that, questioned my salvation and faith in Christ. Granted, she may never have intended for me to feel that way, but the way it was spoken—with shock and pity—communicated these things. We can never judge someone’s faith by the existence of a conversion story--many may not have one. Belittling the value of my testimony because I have never slept around or done drugs, waited to drink until I was 21, and do not remember a defining moment where I did not have God and now do, is a disservice to the stories I have within me. Whether or not someone’s faith story pleases you is not the issue, the issue is do you recognize God’s fingerprints in the faith they have?

~Prayer from St. Augustine of Hippo~

O Lord my God, I believe in you, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Insofar as I can, insofar as you have given me the power, I have sought you. I became weary and I labored.  O Lord my God, my sole hope, help me to believe and never to cease seeking you. Grant that I may always and ardently seek out your countenance. Give me the strength to seek you, for you help me to find you and you have more and more given me the hope of finding you.   Here I am before you with my firmness and my infirmity. Preserve the first and heal the second. Here I am before you with my strength and my ignorance. Where you have opened the door to me, welcome me at the entrance; where you have closed the door to me, open to my cry; enable me to remember you, to understand you, and to love you. Amen.

...How Writing Can Quench Your Soul...

I do not believe many, if any, of you know this, but, I absolutely HATE writing. It is one of the most soul twisting, heart crushing, and convicting things I do when the need arises. And let me tell you what this need feels like: words may spill from my pores, glands, and finger tips, leaving me with the appearance of an Ebola victim if I do not put pen to paper or hands to keys. It is the complete opposite of what my promise ring signifies--it cannot be repressed, held in check, or subjected to self-control.

There is one definitive reason why not writing may, in fact, concave my chest: I was born to do it.

There. I said it. I have readily admitted it. As much as I despise the agony writing puts me in, because it forces me to confront things about myself that I never told counselors for my three years in Colorado. It puts my strengths and heroic flaws all out on the table. It demonstrates how humans experience the Seven Deadly Sins, although I believe there to be many more. My written words can tell you my feelings, my thoughts, my horrors and nightmares, my dreams, my longings, my wounds, my assaults, my struggles, my failures, my triumphs...

I suppose that sounds odd, hearing a writer say how much they hate writing. It is strange to hear a writer that purely enjoys it and writes from that. I do not believe those writers exist anymore, and if they do, they will not for long. Writers like that do not write things that publish. Writers like that write things that only friends and family read and that is rarely the goal of a writer. Writers are tortured individuals. Pull any book you can think of off the shelf and I will tell you what the writer has experienced of piece of in their life: it's all in the words they pressed to the page.

J.K. Rowling says it all the time.

Professors of writing say it all the time.

No wonder editors drink when they read the things we submit.

I am not suggesting that writers, however, are joyless people, because we are not. Our gift, and our curse, is that we feel things deeper than most people do. We have the ability, by talent and extensive refining, to take those circumstances and make you feel them too. If I write from a place of despair, you will be in it with me--I've done it before. If it is a place of hope, you will root for me.

Writers understand what C.S. Lewis meant by the "weight of glory." He may have been addressing believers, but only writers understand the imperative in his word choice. Now, I am not a seasoned athlete. Yes, I did basketball and soccer when I was younger and flirted with the idea of volleyball in middle school, but those quickly evaporated. I started running in college. Here is what I mean: I run because I love it, but also because I hate it. I hate how I feel when I am not running, which has been months now. I am on a low, stagnant. And then I run. I also lack discipline, which I am struggling towards gaining more of each day, but training takes discipline. Your body takes discipline, not punishment. "Weight" is innately heavy, usually a multiple person job, yet Atlas held the Heavens ("Glory") on his back, not out of discipline because he thought bench-pressing Heaven was good training, but out of punishment. He alone. And "Glory." Our light, our goodness, all mixed in with our failures and their shadows. Glory encompasses all of that. How much do you believe you weigh now? How much do you think the person next to you weighs? Would it be easier if you helped them and they helped you? And a third person helped you two in return? And a fourth? Weight of Glory. Powerful words, but could you just believe that? It is hard to do--doubt is part of our weight.

I opened with how much I hate writing. Yet, I followed by saying if I did not write, I may spontaneously combust. Somehow, I have managed to not do that for two and a half years. That is how long I have hated writing and refused to write.

You have to understand: I grew up writing. Evergreen, Colorado, grade school. Pages and pages of spare paper gone each day because I was concocting this great epic that unfolded in Elk Meadow behind my house. It involved wild horses. At eight years old, they are the most important. In middle school, I had binders full of story ideas and began the layout of my first novel. I have rewritten the first 150 pages seven times since then. It may never be finished.

As a high school freshman, we had to write a story about moving west. My group helped me brainstorm, outline, plot, and provided character names. I spent two days in my room generating a fourteen page masterpiece that was turned in on Monday. My senior year, I took three english classes and wrote a twenty-two page short story involving the origins of werewolves in Minnesota from their "Weird" states book. In college, I rolled in declared as an English Literature major with an emphasis in Creative Writing. A novel was in my future.

Sophomore year, writing crushed my heart and shattered my soul. I poured out every piece of myself into all short story, poem, and nonfiction prompts handed my way. My professor told me she believed I had been told my entire life that I was a good writer. Yes, it is true. People have said that about me my whole life.

Well, she said, it is time that stopped because you have a lot to learn.

Insert knife into my aorta and twist. I bled to death that fall semester. By December, I had submitted for a change of major to history and have not looked back, until now, this year.

Every once and a while I will hear a story of a writer that burned out. The longer they wrote, the less profound they became. The more dry they became. It was clear they should probably stop writing for a time. Renew. Refresh. Restart. Writers cannot just stop.

But that is exactly what I did. I stopped writing. I stopped taking literature classes. Every time I thought about writing, I panicked. No story ideas came to me. No new characters names that I could spend hours mapping--ask my father's secretaries, I spent a whole afternoon with post-it notes creating a world and its operational government on one of their empty walls as a high school junior. Everything about it stopped. It was then I believed the greatest lie: I have nothing left to say. That was how I felt. I believed I had said everything there was to say and I was a desert now. No life, just prickly fauna.

Until one year ago, I took my final writing class at my Christian college: Christian Writers. Until last semester when I signed up for Travel Writing because I had room in my schedule. Until three weeks ago, when I would ordinarily find something humorous or convicting I had learned once every few months to share, but now, I have stories pouring from me because of things that had happened at my best friend's wedding.

I can tell you about dialogue surrounding a steamer. I can express the importance of birth control pills and the effect their loss poses to a honeymoon. I am still trying to find a better way to say that I met a man that is 6'8" but have yet to formulate that one.

A lot has changed since I wrote about my conversation with the military recruiter. I have decided it would take a miracle for me to accept an offer from any branch of service. I have decided within the last week that a history Masters is probably not in my future. I have admitted that I am a writer and by putting fingers to keys have declared myself liberated from the poison that shattered me two and a half years ago. I am telling you that I am going to get my Master's in English Writing: Book Publishing and I will run over you with my father's Corvette if you try to stop me. I am writing to say that as I have journaled sporadically over the past year, even in the past six months, my view has shifted.

 I have struggled with being single because a lot of my friends are not. But my friend's wedding taught me that I cannot be self-conscious about being single because you cannot be free with others if you are trapped in yourself and worried about what a smile here or a wink there means.

I have learned that imprisoning yourself within other people's expectations or limitations of your abilities will slowly strangle you into sacrificing the truest pieces of yourself. Yes, I love history, but I know it was not what I was meant to do. Yes, I love Rome and Latin, but I love Literature and Writing and what words produce and I can no longer trade on that.

I understand what it means to be attacked, to be judged, because I have both attacked and judged others. I know intimately the details of being a hypocrite. I believe in beautiful sights and scenes and believe there are two ways to get there: writing and photography.

Quintessentially, I have regained my childhood. Yes, as much as I say I hate writing, there is something that has not changed, my LOVE of the written word and languages and how no matter where we are from photographs, writing, and music, they all convey the same emotions across unimaginable barriers.

Eugene Delacroix once expressed this simply, "What moves those of genius, what inspires their work, is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been said is still not enough."

For the past two years I thought I had said enough. That my soul had uttered its last written syllable. But the amazing thing is, regardless of whether you believe you possess a talent or a divinely inspired gift, as I do, a soul that writes will mend itself. It may take two years or twenty years and it may take you months of stilted structure and frustrating typos to regain momentum, but your soul will mend itself and in the process you will learn to forgive those who inflicted wounds on you. Writing will be the way you cope, how you express your anger and distrust, how you express your love for your family or that one person.

Words can be a grand gesture. You just have to take the initiative.

And sometimes remembering the eight year old little girl, the one in the pink stripe shirt you swear you would never be caught dead in now. Perhaps remembering her, with her back pressed against a glass aquarium pane, her messy curls spilling over her shoulders, and seeing a tuxedoed whale swimming behind her, a goofy grin plastered all over her face--seeing her and believing that as she stands separated mere inches from one of her inspirations growing up--that she knew, even then, that words and not the water were where she belonged.

Everyone Needs to Hear this Story...

"Everyone needs to hear this story," is what she told me. I was not so sure. I knew it had confirmed my personal beliefs and given due process to a constant struggle, but I was not so sure why she thought I should share it with the world. "Because," she pressed, "people need to know that the military lets you do that."

"I don't think they publicize that for a reason, sweetie." I was convinced she was missing the point. I had told her the story because there is not much I can hide from my best friend and because I value her opinion and input on the decisions I weigh in my life, especially in regards to future jobs in the military as opposed to graduate school back in Denver, where she is. She is also one of two ladies I count as a sister.

I suppose, in true scope, she would be an older sister, despite the fact she is barely four months my senior, but she has been married for almost a year now and I am as single as M.C. Hammer's one hit wonder, Can't Touch This. The girl I count as my younger sister could actually be my younger sister, two years authentically, but wired to play soccer like few I have seen. I remember her family called her Smiley when we were younger. I do not believe that has changed.

"Sheridan, honestly, you have to tell people. It is the best story." Red can sure be persistent, fiery and protective as her hair color might suggest. Something people chalk up to personalities of a true red head, only her in-laws were devastated to learn her hair color came from a salon and not genetics. I believe a sadness over no red-haired children was an immediate point of discussion.

"What should I tell them, exactly? Broaching the topic of my complete and utter virgin status is not something that comes up in everyday conversation."

"You still have to tell everyone."

I have thought about it at length and decided, on the side of discretion, that this story may offer encouragement to other girls out there who find themselves in a similar position: twenty-two, virgin, single, with friends around them dropping like flies into marriage and parenthood. At least, that is how it feels to me. But perhaps my plethora of married friends makes me feel more secluded and at odds with the group ratio than I actually am.

Let me explain and perhaps then you will understand why my best girlfriend just about died laughing on the phone Monday evening. I am in what could be my last full-time semester as an undergraduate. I am slated to only be taking two classes in the fall, but may take four, just so my student loans do not kick in until next July--an ability to pay student loans is important and six months of saving will ensure that. Yet, as many college students who find themselves holding worthless degrees without advanced accreditation as I do, even from a university as well respected nationally as Pittsburgh, panic as graduation in December rolls progressively closer sets in and our mind, or mine, went into overdrive last month. I did something probably certifiable and almost downright insane: I contacted a military recruiter about their officer programs.

My father is retired military and is quite proud of his education at the best military university in the nation, in his Class of '76 opinion, and I thought of all the branches, having been raised by a captain, his branch would be my branch. There are things the military can teach me that I can no longer learn at home or would have to work extremely hard to achieve independently and the job security seems very promising. However, I am not as sold on it as I was two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, I was ready to sign on the dotted line and be completely done with it and not have to worry about what I was doing when finals finished in December, it would be sorted. Now, chasing down my options, I am not sure the military is where I am best suited, despite the fact that I would do well in a military structure.

However, for the sake of making you laugh and feel uncomfortable at the same time, I would like to convey this one jewel in my two hour conversation with the officer recruiter, who I would guess is in his middle thirties. When you go and speak with the recruiter for the first time, you fill out all the medical history forms, sign a waiver swearing you won't get a tattoo between now and when you are assigned to a fleet, amongst other things. One of the last things we discussed was when I handed him one of the final papers and he noticed my ring, left hand, fourth finger in. It is the ring I refer to lovingly as my placeholder, because the ring finger, left hand, fourth finger is where an engagement ring and then a wedding band goes and my silver band finally comes off, signifying that I am free to sleep with the man who said, I do, as often as I want. Sounds liberating to me, and slightly foolish to most others, but I am okay with this. A purity ring, or a promise ring as I called it growing up, signified a promise and I am not intent on breaking it.

Despite the best intentions presented by the ring, whether is scares men from speaking to me fearing a lurking husband or fiancé, or mystifying to others, it almost never leaves my finger, except when I am doing dishes, and sometimes not even then. This ring, though, has a knack for drawing attention to itself, which is fascinating in the fact that it is a plain sterling silver band, there is nothing attention seeking about it. It is simple, understated, and classic and excellent quality for how it it cost. Somehow, though, upon seeing this band, the first question that escapes anyones' mouth is, "Are you married?" To which the answer is, "No." Some people move on, most to do not, they puzzle over it, and other immediately get to the point and ask, "Why the ring, then?" And from there I get to explain that it means that the only person I will ever share a bed with is the man I marry, after we are married. The usual response is derision at such an austere goal, often dismissing it as an impossible feat. Sorry, someone told me that five years ago and here I am, status intact. This time, however, it prompted a different discussion all together, and one of the most confirming moments I have had in the past four years.

"I am now going to ask you a very awkward question, Sheridan, but since there are other sailors present it won't be quite as bad as it could be." I nodded. I transferred from a small Christian college in the Denver suburbs, I doubted there was anything he could say that I would construe as awkward. I spent one semester last year living with my engagement-wedding-child obsessed roommate, who took Human Sexuality as one of her fall courses and gave us answers to questions I never would have asked to in the beginning--there is very little he could surprise me with. "Have you ever had a PAP smear?"

And instantly, he proved me wrong. I never had discussed anything about visiting OB/GYNs, ever. I shook my head. The thought that men and women do that for a living makes my stomach twist, you should know that, but also because all my girlfriends, most of them never saw such a doctor until they were engaged. Shoot, military medical exams, apparently I am not to be so lucky. "The reason I ask is because, it takes a while to get those results back, which make them a pain to wait for and they tend to slow down the application process. I am telling you this because of what you are saying that ring means, that you can sign a form swearing you have never engaged in sexual intercourse and therefore waive the application requirement of having that particular procedure done. It speeds up your application exponentially."

I could not help but smile and tell him I would sign whatever form he wanted. I am prepared swear to the United States government that my promise of purity is legitimate. As if choosing this for myself, in full devotion to the expectations laid out by our Lord and Savior, with my parents' full support, was not affirming enough, the United States military was now saying that I was swearing to them that I was not lying. Perjure yourself to the military and you might as well kiss that career path goodbye.

That is what Red meant when she laughed and yelled, "Everyone needs to hear this story!" She was blown away by the fact that the military had a form where virgins could sign their name, swearing their purity. I was more surprised by my recruiter saying that I was the first person he had ever been able to say that to. Affirmation, right there. Living proof that I have gumption.

So, now you know what the story is, and I hope the part you take away is not that the military has a form that allows you to circumvent medical procedures, however convenient that may be, but the fact that such a form exists means there is faith held within humanity something so special is worth waiting for and that, in the years my recruiter has served, I am the only person he has ever been able to say that to. I am telling you this so that it might feel like he has said it to all of you, who waiting for the white dress, and the anxiety and nervousness that comes from knowing you have never been with anyone else, but also the anticipation that exists in conjunction with that.

Whether you have never been with anyone or multiple someones, though, you should never made to feel belittled for that. Humanity cannot determine grace, that is up to the LORD alone. Take heart sisters, for although we may not see it, there are brothers in Christ struggling alongside us.

We Need a Transformation

Millennials, Generation Y, the Lost Generation are all phrases that have been used to describe the peer group I was born into. Not only are we more likely to be liberal in our political and lifestyle views, but we are more likely to subscribe to no particular foundation of belief, instead taking pieces from each religion that we find suit us and creating our own. Yet, smaller, within the Christian peers I found that people are anxious for a transformation, for a revival to sweep not only through the ranks of believers, but beyond us through the whole world. My generation desperately needs leaders who are willing to push the boundaries of what churches are doing now. We need women who are not afraid to confront us about where we find our worth, value, and integrity. We need men who challenge us to be strong, independent, respectful, and fiercely unashamed of our beauty. 

I have wrestled and seen my sisters struggle as we move through life with just where we fit. Are we the pretty one? The athletic one? The smart one? The married one? There are speakers out there challenging men to overcome this passive view towards God, women, and relationships, but what about us? We have become dominant in relationships, usurping the role of men. We do not understand what healthy balance consists of as we are told you have to look here, but still have enough energy and heart to pour yourself out over there. Our footing with God is constantly in flux, our personal battles take a toll on how we believe God looks at us. Over half my friends are married, does God favor them more? I transferred from an academically competitive university to one nationally recognized for its prestige, have I failed God by doing so? I can no longer see where God’s stamp on my life has been and where my own missteps have occurred because I’m so busy worrying about what everyone thinks of my actions. We need a transformation that yells in our face, “Stop! You believe, but He will help your unbelief.” It takes a lot to be still and know that He is God, but it is time to make the noise cease. 

It is time to fight from the darkness for the light.

lux ex tenebris invictus...light triumphs out of darkness...

On Your Graduation...

Hello Beautiful!

It's Christmas 2013 where you are now and you have finished your undergraduate studies in history. You probably have an idea of where you're going next, whether it is graduate school or an internship or a job. It is hard for me to imagine what that will feel like, knowing that a few months ago I would be done three months from now and trading it all in to regain a piece of our life.

We made the decision to change schools did we not? I hope it was still the right thing to do. I hope one year from now I am not graduating from a different school than the one I am at now. What would that say about my, our, decision making process, huh? The funny thing is, I don't know where else you would go. You were in Colorado just at the beginning of the month and your old university has moved on without you, like you blew away with the sage-brush, just like you insisted would happen. People do not believe you like they should. A handful of people still keep up with you, others are too hurt or do not care anymore, or never did. You probably still do not know the answer to that either.

I hope, fifteen months from now, when you find this letter and reread it, you are in a happier place than I am right now. That you are in a better place physically, meaning you can kick some literal ass; that you are in a better place spiritually, since neither university or home seem to pull you from the stagnant; that you are in a better place mentally, not double-guessing yourself or plagued with so much fear.

Tonight I am not feeling well. It appears to be a developing sinus infection, with an already impressive cough, we could skip infection and go straight to bronchitis if we're lucky, that's where the good meds are. But it is more than that. It always is.

Tonight I am mad at a guy, jealous of a girl, but predominantly angry at myself for doing it again. You know what I mean (we have to work on that). You stamped his opinion card a bit too early. You let yourself think, despite your conscience whispering, "Be careful," that just maybe the drop of interest he had displayed, the chemistry you possessed would be something. It, clearly, is not. He has chosen the other girl, hasn't he? And I am so, just, annoyed at him for it. The kind of annoyed where they say something and you just laugh, knowing anything else is too painful and imagine running him down with your car. It is the kind of jealousy that makes you not want to like her, even though you don't know her really well and you have no reason to dislike her. She has never been anything but nice to you. But it is the anger at myself for thinking, that just maybe, this one would be different. This is the guy; the smart, charming, intelligent, Christ-oriented guy that was going to look at me and say, "Her." He may not have been THE guy, but he could have been a good beginning.

But he is not either the first or the last one, is he...and I am frustrated. I do not know what your life looks like right now, a newly minted, degree-possessing graduate. I do not know if we have someone special in our lives. It is entirely probable, but I am banking on the assumption that this is unlikely. I suspect that your time between school, church, and work has convinced you of three things: that men are gay, taken, and the single ones are dead. That is how I feel right now. Which is a rotten way to feel, in case you do not remember at Christmas. And it is not the way God intended us to feel either.

So, I have come up with a list of things that I am starting now, this week, the moment I awaken in the morning, because things have to change or disaster will strike. I hope that when you are reading this, you can that you have done most, if not all of these things and are working on finishing the list before you're twenty-five.

1. I hope you are able to look at yourself every day and believe, down to your soul that you are beautiful. To believe that God loves you as his daughter, something you have professed for years, but are no longer sure what that means right now. To have confidence in what you have done with your life and for yourself and nobody else.

2. I hope you are healthy, physically. That you have an understanding of what makes you sick and how you can remain healthier for longer; limiting your flares and your trips to the hospital for ER grade migraine treatment or medication because eating anything makes you sick and lose weight, and not because you did P90X for five days straight.

3. That you have maintained the friendships that matter to you, completely severed the ones that do not, and found the courage to decide for yourself whether someone is worth the heartache or deserves a good lashing. I pray that at least one friend from Colorado has flown out to see you, and if they haven't, that your graduation party they would not miss for the world.

4. That you will board a plane soon that takes you to exotic locations, for thirty days, where you run around Europe and see life beyond the small town you returned to.

5. I pray that the courage exists inside you to leave when it is time to leave. I know that we came back to Pittsburgh to settle and stay here and perhaps, that is what will be for a few years or perhaps, Pittsburgh will always be home base, but promise that you have worked on your fear of going somewhere on your own, where you know a few or no one, even if it is not Littleton, Colorado.

6. I pray that you have worked on your mental health, that these hard days do not overwhelm you like they overwhelm me now. That dangerous thoughts are behind you, that you are reading this letter and it finds you unable to recognize the tear-stained cheeks of the you who wrote it.

7. And, despite it not being an even number, but the perfect number, I pray that you know love. Even if it is not in the way you are hurting for it now. While that love is wonderful, it is short compared to eternal love and the love of those who are there for you now. I pray that you continue to pursue different people who intrigue at an alarming rate, especially the woman you are jealous of and the man that is good for her. You can learn a lot from her, I know you know that, and that you support her own walk when it comes time. And that you know and understand that he is not going to wake up one morning and realize you are what he is missing. Life does not work that way. Romance, while the gesture is wonderful, occurs within the ordinary and you have fallen pray to assigning it extraordinary terms. You deserve those terms, but maybe not in the way you thought we would see it.

He already offers you an extraordinary love. He has always offered it to you. He died so that you might come be with Him. Live with Him. Follow Him. Trust Him.

It is hard, I am not going to lie. I am sure the trials you have faced are greater than my own at this writing, which is hard to imagine. But, our friend is right, we cannot resign, no matter how wonderful a cave sounds, we are too tough. I am too tough. You are too tough. Remember that. We have been through so much worse than this. Loss has its minor forms and major forms, life has its sharps and flats, music crescendos and cannot hold indefinitely.

Make me another promise, when you find this and read it in a year, that you will read it out loud and read everything you have written since this point back to me. I want to hear how your story turns out so far because it is no where close to the end. I want to hear all your bad days. I want you to find someone to share them with and be very honest. I want you to believe that you are loved and visible, I do not care if you have to tattoo something in your skin to remind yourself.

Promise me.

For Him.

For You.

It was never between you and them, it was between you and Him anyway.

To Being the Coward

I am telling you now, it is not okay for people to say the same things to you...

You are a yellow-bellied wuss. The men in my life should know that they have little to fear from me because, even if I fancy you, I'll never do anything about it. I'm too scared to fight for what I want. I'm too scared that asking for more will destroy what we have. Even if I loved you, time would make you my brother because I freeze on the inside. You have nothing to fear from me, so you can go ahead and choose her because I will never stop you.

Suicides, where do they go when they die? You know I was told they go to Hell. It did not matter that they did not know her. It did not matter that telling me such a thing deepened my own pain. Such things are of little consequence when a debate can be had. What people do not realize is that when they say such things suicide looks a little more appealing to the person they're saying it to.

She is different than I thought she was. Oh, what a charmer. You need to understand that there is an amazing difference in being honest with someone then leaving them for it and them telling your friend they rebounded to that you are not quite who they thought you were. You need to know that you did not lie, they were not paying attention.

It would be better if you were away from your family, doing your own thing. This is a statement I have heard multiple times now, from the same consecutive sources over the past year. Let me explain, it's a selfish statement, really, people advising you on a decision based on their personal preference and not what is actually best for you. Be wary of the people you inconvenience by improving your quality of life.

Why would I pour into someone who is going to leave? There really is nothing like someone looking you in the eyes and telling you that you are not worth their time and attention if you are not going to stick around. A piece of advice, this is a person you should never share anything personal with past how you are handling your academic load. Such people like to attach labels to you that make you, I don't know, have a determinate factor. For example, you could go from a girl who seemed flustered to depressed in the space of a few months. They're not so helpful when they assign the latter, regardless of  truthfulness.

Changing universities will put your already dry soul in jeopardy. Going from a small, private, religious based educational system to a large, public university will have its own challenges. But, if you are entrenched with a great support system at home and at church, your soul's condition should not be a criteria for concern, even deserts have monsoons.

The thought of going back there makes me hollow inside, makes me want to take my car off the Rockies. That, is not even funny. I am not quite sure which is worse: having someone you love think you're joking when the thought of going back to somewhere makes taking your life bearable or the fact that you even thought about taking your own life while you were there. I cannot look at you and say for absolute certainty that there are people who walk through life and never have a thought about ending it early. All I can tell you, is at twenty-one, I thought about it last year.

When tragedy strikes your life when a mentor commits suicide, something deep inside you unhinges. Little things become annoying. Big things become unbearable. When you relapse into a cycle of illness and missing class and make-up work and your grades sinking, just like they did in high school, when you last thought about it, something has to change.

You need to know these things because it is so important:

You are not your grades. Having bad grades for a season is not the end of the world, even if you were raised in a family that treats it that way. They are the worst reason on earth to think about leaving it for.

You may be a coward when it comes to men. But, there is nothing wrong with that. Not all girls are gifted with the ability to convey deeper feelings for a guy past, "Just friends." Take it from the girl who left Colorado without letting a soccer player know. The same girl that has not told the engineer here at home. Not all of us were born with bravery in our veins, it takes time to develop.

You are different than they thought. Let them take it with them to the curb. If they are telling someone else you are different, especially if they chose your friend as a rebound, understand that they saw a different you. You being a huge home-body has nothing to do with why you would not go out with them. The fact that you were not staying in the same state and that your father would shoot them on sight, however, does.

Your soul can survive a drought. Sometimes, the places people think are the driest, turn out to be the most nourishing for those that are starving. But take a look at who you're surrounded by as well. It could be them that are sucking you dry.

You are worth committing to. I don't care if it's a boyfriend or a side-kick, you are worth someone devoting express time to you. Understanding you and what makes you unique and intricate and fashioned of God. Anyone who writes you off just because your place in their life is temporary can be dropped off at the station.

So, here is to being the coward...

The girl afraid to tell the boy or the boy scared to tell the girl. Here's the bonus: We're both chicken.

Here is to telling people and their opinions of you to be damned because the Devil sent them.

To challenging the notion that going through life is easy and that, sometimes, you stare into the pit.

Understanding that you are worth more than what someone said.

Challenging that your soul has nothing to do the location but in what way the rain comes.

I may be a yellow-bellied, dry soul, different kind of wuss according to some.

But...the story never ends with someone being handed a broom and a dust pan...