Like most small girls did, I dreamt of becoming a princess to a prince, get married, and have kids. We will have a happy family, and they will bring joy to their grandmas and grandpas.
But that’s so fairytale, isn’t it? Three decades later and that dream has not yet come true.
Eventually, my fairytale became a normal world story. Godmothers are nowhere to be found, and monsters and evil queens (yes, plural) are replaced by normal [inconsiderate] people.
Drawing my reality, it is now something like this:
– news that someone gets engaged means two days of non-stop question of when I’m going to be next
– news that someone gets married means weeks of non-stop question of when I’m going to be next
– news that someone gets pregnant mean more weeks of non-stop question of when I’m going to be next
Sometimes it is packaged in a joke. Sometimes in a naive, awkward question. Either way, it comes with a look of pity–as if saying no person wants me in his life, that I am getting old and that it might be too late for me.
And yes, sometimes I agree with them too. How I cannot? When someone gets engaged (like last night), I am talked about as much as my friend’s engagement story.
The next thing I knew, the news and celebration of my friends’ lives become about me.
To know that I am not worthy to be loved–a love enough for marriage proposal, is a lie.
But sometimes lies are easier to believe than truths, isn’t it? Especially if you are alone believing in the truth you are trying to hold on.
And then sometimes, the jokes become my truths, and the questions become my answers.
In fairytales there are always godmothers and good folks. I am just blessed that in my story, I don’t have the illusion of magic to get me through this. I am blessed with the grace of someone much bigger.
I am loved by my story’s author Himself.
When I am in my sulking moments, I sometimes find myself asking Him to just kill this dream that was drafted in my story line. I ask Him the same questions people ask me.
And then He always reminds me. That mine is not just a fairytale story. Mine is a story that is well-planned, and well-written with a purpose. And this story is written just for me and only for me.
Now, I still hear the jokes. I still hear the same questions. But I learned also to listen what my Author has to say.
What’s next? I don’t know. Maybe someone will get married tomorrow, and it will be about me again. Maybe I will cry. Or maybe I will brush it off.
But I am looking forward to my Author’s promise that I can trust Him as my story turns the next page.
For now, I’ll be moving on to the next paragraph.