One Saturday, not too long but still forever ago, I spent most of the afternoon and evening flirting shamelessly with the tall, dark & handsome Israeli man who had been hired to move furniture and boxes out of the house I am renting. He said his name was Abe, & he would take my hand or beckon with a finger for me to come closer. At one point, we were alone in my room as I showed him which furniture to take & what to leave behind. Again, that finger wiggled at me, urging me away from the safe distance I had put between us. I smiled, shook my head, & stayed right where I was.
I went to bed late that night, knowing the movers hadn't left yet; half of me wanting to hear a noise at my door, the other half dreading just that. Hey, I'm not a wicked girl, but I am human. And he made me feel more like a woman than I had in a long time.
It wasn't until I heard the truck drive away that I finally fell asleep. But even in my dreams, I tossed & turned & yelled at God. I'm still waiting for someone to tell me why it's fair that He would give me these feelings & desires & then insist that, if I'm going to be a good, obedient Christian I have to shove them aside on a regular basis & do whatever I can to completely ignore something so innately human. Am I supposed to be un-human? A stone statue? What was He thinking? Make me a rock, for heaven's sake. Anything but this.
A few years ago, I attended a talk for singles called "Holy Sex." The speaker, a long-time married man, suggested we take up hobbies as an alternative. Like knitting. He actually recommended knitting. Good grief. I could imagine him going home and his wife saying, "Not tonight, dear. I'd rather knit." And he, of course, would reply, "You know, that's a great idea! I actually feel more like knitting myself." People with their cupboards full should not hand out recipes to those who are starving.
And that's all I have to say about it at this time. . . .