God sent him.
And no – not in the way one tends to think when a woman situates her mouth to expel that short, suggestive phrase. But for the same reason God used a burning bush to speak to Moses, he spoke to me that night as if the Almighty himself told him I needed him.
For two weeks prior to our “chance” encounter I felt my heart flipping tricks on the inside – suddenly stopping then restarting with a jolt so sharp I thought it likely to explode. And though I was clear on the underlying upset that caused this malignant sensation, the same pride that stopped me from admitting the obvious, made me too stubborn to acknowledge it was even real.
***
When he pulled up to my location that evening we exchanged the usual pleasantries. “Robert?” I shouted through the half-cracked window of his black Toyota Camry. To which he replied, “You’re going to Jersey, right?”
Indeed.
I was the Jersey girl who refused to leave. Born and raised in the burbs I found my home among the housewives who traded in work for child rearing, men who sacrificed city lives for blossoming families, and the all-around “practicalists” who had no problem acknowledging that a full-time life in NYC was best suited for someone else.
My therapist had long suggested I make a move to satisfy my desire for a love life, but I’d like to think that for “the RIGHT one,” my location could be a hut in Hiroshima. He’d still fight to make it work.
***
“It’s saying the shortest route is 52 minutes.”
“George Washington?” I asked
“No, the Lincoln.”
That’s fine. I’ll take it.
After a crazy day running around the City it seemed like a lot, but he assured me that on a Thursday night coming from downtown Manhattan, it was the best he could do. So I obliged, opting to fall into the comforts of his back seat over arguing my opinion: the West Side Highway to the GWB was way more time-effective. And somewhere in-between my pick-up on Mulberry Street, and our entry into the tunnel, I realized the minutes didn’t matter. See what I wasn’t aware of that misty evening his car arrived in Little Italy, was that the next 52 minutes of our time together would be the very thing I needed to help heal my heart.
Going into 2017 I realized I was overdue for a change. I needed to rid my mind of self-doubt, reclaim my reason for being, and find an inner peace so deep the most negative vibes couldn’t find it. And in the process of deciding how I would accomplish the mission I set forth, it became clearer than ever that success would only come if I let some things go. The first of these would be dating.
At 31 I had envisioned my relationship end-goal for what felt like a lifetime – a beautiful ring, a beautiful home, rose quartz countertops in the bathroom, and Him – no games, no over-the-top wedding, (maybe a honeymoon in Bora Bora) and Him. But it alluded me all-the-more with each year I grew increasingly aware of who I was. And while I honestly was ready to commit to something genuinely beautiful, I whole-heartedly believed that the context of that connection would be centered on a mutual understanding that at some point we would stand before God, thank him for the gift of love, and make a promise to Him, as well as ourselves, that for the rest of our lives we would choose “US.”
But the more I looked around, the more I understood that the sanctity of a holy union had long lost its appeal. And so at 30-plus, while thankful for the experiences of dating, my heart was in a state of disappointment, brought on by loving someone who couldn’t commit to forever. When I stepped into his black Toyota Camry that evening he spoke to my disheartened spirit in a way that felt orchestrated by the originator himself. Hitting me with one line, in particular, I’ll never forget:
“A man who dates a woman with no intention of marrying her is robbing God.”
Quoting the eighth commandment to support his claim, I quickly found my emotions easing with the theory he presented. As we made our way down West Street I was reminded of the qualities I said I wanted in my future partner, forcing me to admit that I was holding on to a connection that would never quite satisfy my soul. A forever girlfriend I was not. I needed to be with a man who saw The Divine in me. Who understood that loving me would only make him richer, that forsaking all others would only make him better and that choosing me could only join him closer to God. If loving is a choice I wanted him to choose me over, and over again – despite the hard times, despite the setbacks, and despite the flaws I could not fix.
As we continued past the entrance to the tunnel he elevated his assertion by saying, “Men want to believe that women were created for them – NO! Women were created for God, to do His work. So when you lead a woman on or you date a woman with no intention of marrying her you are stealing from God.”
I received that word, recognizing my need to be more deliberate when choosing who I break bread with, who I spend time on, and who I allow to take up rent-free space in my thoughts and heart. But at the same time, I felt the need to defend past decisions by noting that the men of yesteryear did love God. It was me they missed the mark with. And just as we entered Jersey he dropped another gem to refute the notion I presented. Cautioning me that while some men have a “spiritual tone,” they aren’t spiritual at all.
As Route 3 turned into 17 silence washed over the car. I imagine Robert realized his words left me deep in thought, so he broke up my unintended concentration with stories of women he had previously dated. I interjected with my own, joking with him about the probability of finding someone serious in a city known to break hearts and how after two-plus years, things ended with a man I had high hopes for.
He complimented me based on what he experienced during our short time together, confirming for me what I already knew – there’s a man out there who will count it a blessing to have me. Feeding me the exact words required to keep my emotions at bay just as Route 4 split into 208.
I was almost home.
Before we turned the corner to enter my complex he left me with one last little nugget – a parting gift of sorts – just in case there was even a slight chance I would ignore everything he said and revert back to disillusioned daydreams of making it work with a man who had no vision for us.
“You have to remember that self cannot change self. Only divine intervention can do that. So don’t listen to a man who says he’s going to change. Trust a man who calls on God to change him.”
Both my head and heart were in agreement, and as we pulled up to my car that evening I realized a bit of euphoria had wiped over my body. I said good night to Robert. Thanked him for the ride and expressed my gratitude for the words he spoke into my spirit.
Prior to my pickup I wanted to believe that my feelings were on the mend. That after days of restless nights, wrestling with my inner thoughts, I had tackled the unwavering feeling of disappointment brought on by actions far from my control. But I needed his voice that night to qualm my anxiety, reposition my perspective and help me realize that what I was leaving behind could never compare to what lay ahead.
I still have my moments. Our car ride didn’t magically take away the pain of losing someone I loved. But it helped. And while I can’t say for sure when my head and heart will reconcile, I can say that I’m inching closer. Betrayal hurts and disappointment stings, but these things happen.
THESE THINGS HAPPEN. 
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