A Road to Emmaeus

I thought that my life would not change. 

After spending all of my twenties and a good part of my thirties as a single person, I had begun to suspect – fear, even – that I would never get married. I have previously written about my views on marriage, noting that I still believe in the value of the institution even as my idealization of it has faded. Now, having just turned thirty-four, I write this post as a man engaged to be married in less than six months. The full story of meeting and falling in love is one that I have wanted to tell for some time, and will try to do so here. More than this, though, I want to relate what it all means from my current vantage point. 

I have found myself asking a lot of questions of late. Am I truly ready to give up the independence of singleness? What does it mean to continuously sacrifice for the good of another, to continuously put one’s spouse’s interests ahead of one’s own? I am only beginning to understand the implications of these questions for my life, and my views of singleness, romantic love, and marriage are rapidly evolving as I reflect back on the past decade of adulthood. Marriage will be the most consequential decision of my life up to this point, and yet I am strangely at peace, as if this decision were a natural progression rather than an abrupt reverse-course. I have learned that romantic love – eros – sometimes arrives through little effort of one’s own. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that there is considerable effort involved, but this effort comes not in desperately looking for love, but instead in living a life of singleness well so that one’s heart is prepared to both give and receive love when the proper time comes. 

My story will better illustrate this last point. As I write this, I am looking out at the desert hills of Riverside, California. This land is reminiscent of central Mexico, where I traveled after quitting my job last fall. My journey to Puebla was intended as a sojourn; a mostly solitary enterprise aimed at self-improvement. It was also intended to be a long one: fifteen weeks, by which time I would be nearly fluent in Spanish, completing a longtime dream. Such were my expectations when one of my old housemates from Georgetown, Ashley, reminded me that her good friend Sara would also be enrolling at the same Spanish immersion school in Puebla. At the time, I had completed the first three weeks of courses. Sara, I heard, intended to stay for only two weeks prior to returning home for Christmas. Ashley suggested that we meet up during Sara’s stay, and I happily agreed. 

We met in the Zocalo in Puebla on a Sunday afternoon in early December. After helping her draw money from a nearby ATM, we wandered into a nameless bar, ordered two cheap Mexican beers, and proceeded to spend two hours in rich conversation. I quickly felt for Sara what I had always longed to feel towards a woman: a magnetic pull, in which even a few minutes of conversation with the other reveals an intense and growing affinity. This is what I felt for Sara from the start. It began as a fascination that I thought could be the beginnings of a great romance. In the first few days of spending time together – recalling our favorite books, or places we have traveled, or theological dilemmas over which one or both of us have mulled – I experienced only more and more confirmation of my affections. 

At the same time, of course, I obsessed over whether or not she felt the same way towards me. I thought about her zeal whenever we spoke, and how her eyes seemed to shine when we both emerged from our respective classrooms and tried out our fledgling Spanish skills. Every day after class we walked around Puebla to soak in our surroundings, finding pastries at a French-style bakery, admiring talavera-coated chapels, and surveying the city from the rooftop of a department store. I fell in love a little bit more with each conversation, as the shape of her heart came into focus. I knew that I needed to soon confess my feelings, either to put an end to my infatuation or realize the romance of my dreams (and somehow I knew that these were the only two possible outcomes). 

Four days after her arrival in Puebla, I found my opportunity. I invited Sara for an evening of gift-buying for our families. Puebla boasts a large array of shops selling artisanal works, so we toured a few of these, picking up porcelain animals (including a cute tortuga for one of her nephews) and a handful of other trinkets. While observing her perusing the shelves for the perfect gift, I considered how complex, beautiful, and whimsical she was and how strongly I felt attracted to her. I then asked her of she would like to see a special place: a hilltop outside of the city, the site of a famed battle between French and Mexican forces known as the Batailla de Pueblo. The view, I promised, would be spectacular at sunset. 

Less than half an hour later, our taxi dropped us off at the designated spot. The setting seemed perfect: a park bench overlooking the valley, the sun as full as my heart felt right then, the city awash in the glow before dusk. We sat, side by side, and talked about our childhood. I waited for a lull in the conversation, and when it came, I faced her and delivered what I had prepared. I said something to the effect that I really liked her and wanted to date her. It was hardly eloquent, but Sara’s reaction confirmed that mine were the right words. We held hands for the first time, our lives forever altered. Our remaining days in Puebla were a whirlwind of romantic bliss, complete with a ferris wheel ride, a Beatles tribute concert, and spectating at a raucous lucha libre match. After we both departed for our respective homes for Christmas, I soon scrapped my plans to continue studying at the school. I knew that I could not be apart from Sara for much longer, so I adjusted my travel and returned to DC shortly after New Year’s. 

Seven months have passed since our fairy tale in Mexico. About a month ago I asked Sara to marry me on the C&O canal trail in Georgetown. I played a song for her on my ukulele, and though I forgot the second verse, she accepted my proposal anyway and now wears a sapphire engagement ring. As with many of the rituals associated with marriage, I had long speculated what I would feel in that moment of proposal. In truth, I had decided to marry Sara within a week of dating, and our subsequent courtship was simply an affirmation of that decision. The proposal, then, seemed to be more a formality of the bond that already existed between us. It was not an emotionally charged moment. We took a simple selfie at the very spot, and that was it. All in all, it was a very private moment, exactly what we wanted. Afterwards, we drove to Ashley’s house where we celebrated with her and a handful of our other friends. 

And now marriage.

I have thought much about marriage in my life, ever since my early twenties. Now these thoughts are front and center as every day brings Sara and I closer to our union. I once daydreamed about meeting my future spouse; now that I have, these dreams instead drift towards thoughts of married bliss. To avoid idealizing marriage, I also remind myself of how difficult it will be. In this, my parents’ divorce is never far from my mind. All of the questions I have asked my married friends over the past decade have revealed that disappointments in marriage are inevitable. I can expect both joy and pain in union with Sara, and I think that I’m old enough now to be at peace with that. 

When I think of marriage, the word “finality” is the first that comes to mind. To be married, I know that I am forever abandoning the privilege of being self-centered, a privilege I have enjoyed every year of my adulthood. In short, I am voluntarily giving up my independence. I will cease to be an individual and will become a “new person” with my wife. I think this is what is meant in Genesis 2:24 when the text reads that “a man shall leave his mother and father and cling to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” In short, it is meant to be a self-sacrificial union. In order to experience the intimacy of marriage, my old self must be put away, and the needs of my wife must become more important than my own. This is easy to preach and not so easy to practice. I am self-centered by nature, and am usually annoyed by intrusions on my autonomy. 

To a small degree, I am already starting to notice this. Since being with Sara, I have far less time to myself, time I would ordinarily spend playing guitar, reading, or gardening. I find myself relishing the few hours a week when I am alone in my room, where I can be an individual again, attuned solely to my own pursuits. Before Sara, I was an individual above all, with social relationships carefully interwoven at the time and place of my choosing. Partnership, and soon marriage, is the opposite: continual union with one’s spouse, with times of individuality planned to avoid mutual exhaustion and codependency. In light of this, Sara and I have discussed how having time to ourselves is vitally important. In DC, we see each other only four days a week. Carving out alone time will be far more difficult in marriage, and yet it is something we plan to pursue. Having one’s own space is a good thing; it prevents an unhealthy codependency, and ensures that we don’t extinguish each others’ passions. My own space is music, and Sara’s is reading. We believe that we can give up our independence and become one flesh without sacrificing all aspects of our individuality. 

The finality of marriage means that Sara and I cannot regress to the self-centeredness that we enjoyed as single people. If we do, we will sacrifice the joy of intimacy for temporary egotism. The same is true, I think, when it comes to the transparency of marriage. I have never revealed myself to anyone the way I have revealed myself to Sara; my hopes, dreams, fears, and desires all laid bare, including the darkness against which I struggle. We all have our own darkness, the flaws that we know are very real and that we do our best to conceal from others. Such concealment cannot happen in marriage, or the price will be paid in a loss of trust and intimacy. 

This is something that Sara and I continue to learn as we practice transparency. We continuously ask how the other thinks and feels. When there is a point of tension, one of us will voice it, allowing for resolution. If there is a fault on one person’s side, we confess it and ask for forgiveness. We ask if the other is happy with the way things are. We ask if our expectations are the same. We pray together each night. There have been many times in which Sara has asked what I am thinking, and I am often reluctant to share. But each time I do I reveal a bit more of myself, and she learns a bit more about me – flaws and all – and is able to accept more of the person that I truly am. 

This, I think, is one of the profound mysteries of marriage: accepting and loving your spouse for who they are, including all of their flaws, foibles, and habits that you find irritating. Christian friends have told me that one’s spouse acts as the ever-present mirror in which one becomes more and more conscious of one’s own sin. This is terrifying, but also oddly comforting, for it means that one can be fully loved by another even as the struggle against sin continues. This kind of acceptance, I am learning, can only exist when transparency is present and intimacy flourishes as a result.

If self-sacrifice and transparency are pillars that hold marriage up, what is the marriage itself? I lately have been confronted with questions about the purpose of marriage. Does marriage exist primarily, or even solely, for the fulfillment of the two people in the union? Or is marriage instead supposed to point externally, to sharpen each person so that, together, they can accomplish things in the world that they could not do as single people? While we certainly look forward to the romantic fulfillment of marriage, Sara and I are of the opinion that marriage should ultimately look outward rather than inward. Marriage is about sacrificing for one’s spouse, but also sacrificing together alongside one’s spouse for a higher purpose. For us, this means raising children together, teaching them the right values, and protecting, nurturing, and educating them as best we can as integral members of the next generation. 

Looking outward in marriage also goes beyond raising children. It is connected to God’s calling in our lives to be ambassadors of reconciliation (2 Corinthians 5:20) and to put the truths of the Gospel into motion through ministries of mercy. Sara and I are especially interested in addressing the vast racial and socioeconomic disparities in America, both topics that are dominating our current political landscape (and about which I will soon write in this blog). We never want to be so far removed from the “least of these” that we are oblivious to the suffering that exists in our society. Wherever we choose to raise our children, we want them to see America in all of its imperfect glory. We also want to be part of the solution to the brokenness in our society: through serving in local church ministries, volunteering for community organizations, and perhaps reorienting our careers away from international development and diplomacy and towards domestic non-profit work. Regardless of what shape our engagement takes, we believe that discussing and engaging with the important issues of our day will be an instrumental part of our marriage. In short, our union will be not simply a refuge from the instability and uncertainty around us, but also a vessel of change and healing to be focused outward into our society. To be sure, these are lofty principles and a reflection of our youthful naiveté. Still, this external focus in marriage is something that we will try our best to put into practice, even if imperfectly. 

Self-sacrifice, transparency, and looking outward – these are what I see as some of the essential elements of marriage. I recognize that my vantage point is limited as I am still unmarried and my relationship with Sara is still in its early days. Nevertheless, I do believe that if we value these things in the beginning, they will provide the basis for a healthy marriage with growing intimacy. There will be a tremendous amount to learn about each other and about what it takes to be a loving spouse; indeed, more than I can understand right now. My solace in this is that I have someone that I can trust in Sara, someone whose love is steadfast and genuine. With her, I feel that the coming challenges in our lives can be overcome. 

Before meeting Sara, I often meditated on the constants in my life: family, friendship, God, and singleness. I recall writing a reflection a few years ago in which I remarked that I had come to know and value all types of love except for eros – romantic love. My life, I wrote, was rich in philia, the love flowing from friendship, and agape, the self-sacrificial love that flows from God. But eros was absent. Indeed, eros seemed like an impossible dream. Now that I have experienced this kind of love with Sara, my life certainly feels more complete than it was before. I look forward to the future and its many changes in a way that I did not previously. There are new possibilities now with Sara by my side: raising children, moving to a new city, and growing in wisdom together over years and decades of shared sacrifice. These were only hypotheticals before, and now they will soon become my reality. 

It is in this light that I view singleness; or my former singleness, rather. I am more than ready to abandon singleness, but not because I abhorred it or because I see it as wasted time. I became the man I am today while walking in singleness. I learned how to be an adult as a single person: the importance of taking responsibility for my actions and sacrificing myself for something greater. As a much younger man, I deployed to war in Afghanistan, wrestled with my own mortality, and, thankfully, returned unharmed. I came to appreciate the value of emotional intimacy within a group of close friends. I learned how to support my family through times of emotional turmoil. With an abundance of free time, I enjoyed all of the experiences that I wanted to have as a single person: learning how to play guitar and write songs, traveling across Europe and Africa, expanding my mind through voracious reading, and, especially, developing strong friendships that will last a lifetime. Indeed, I can’t think of any aspect of singleness that I wanted to enjoy but didn’t. 

Singleness, my long and constant companion, readied me for marriage. I was not prepared for marriage in my twenties because I had not yet learned enough about myself. My expectations for marriage, and my ability to communicate them to Sara, are only possible now that I am thirty-four and can boast at least a modicum of experience in the world. 

The direction of my life will change drastically in a few short months, yet I feel that I am ready. Sara and I trust each other, which counts for a lot, I think. And when you are with someone that you love and trust, there is a persistent glow that seems to blunt even the deepest fears, like a Mexican sun pouring through a valley, waking up the city and its myriad possibilities.