I still remember the first time I saw him. I was 18, a senior in high school, at church one Sunday when he came to visit our congregation to lead worship. I remember what his voice made me feel like, like I wanted to write poems on poems on poems. He mesmerized me.
When I saw him again two years later, I didn’t recognize him…but I recognized how his voice made me feel. Like I could write the world’s best novel, write a poem that could change the nations. And write I would. I would write poems that flowed like a river.
Despite this, I fell for him slowly, praying through every step. People will tell you I was careless, that I chased feelings for him. It’s not true. It was steady and slow and I loved him.
He had a heart for refugees, served in any capacity he could. He loved art, could play the piano and guitar. He had a genuine smile, loved Disney movies. He would give the clothes off his back if he thought that’s what you needed. Seriously. I watched him do it on a trip to Ireland.
I still remember the night we stared at each other, both of us crying as he said he loved me but couldn’t be what I needed. These days, he won’t admit he said that if other people are around. I think he’s afraid of what people will think.
He was always so afraid of what people would think. Men like that don’t marry women like me. Women loud and feisty. And most notably, disabled.
For a long time after things ended, I searched for him in other men. And I found pieces of him in the men I dated. And then of course, there were men I dated that were nothing like him.
I think what I have missed the most is how his music would make me feel. I could be in a drought with my writing and he would pull it out of me. The truths that I didn’t know were inside of me.
That’s what I asked God for. Could He bring another man, one willing and wanting to be with me, whose music could pull out my art, my writing? And if I recognize that gift in a man, would he recognize the gift I could be for him?