On Being Single

It was about 10:30 PM on a Friday night. The main street was bustling as everyone was just beginning to leave their houses to go out, eating and visiting. Again, I had another epic yet “to be expected” encounter with a taxi driver. He wouldn’t listen to my directions—the ones I know “work” because I’ve memorized them from an Arab. He wanted to chit-chat with me [no, sir] and offered to take me to his house to visit with his two wives. [Ugh.] Frustrated and annoyed, I get a little sassy and pay him the exact fare, as he dropped me off about 5 “American blocks” from my desired destination. [Thanks, dude.]

I decide to delight in the opportunity to get to walk outside at night, something that doesn’t happen unless THIS happens. I put in my one working earphone on my little iPod shuffle and listen to the sweet sounds of some old-school Caedmon’s Call. We weren’t even on the chorus yet and I was already being followed. By a guy in a white Toyota van—ya know the one I’m talking about? The totally stereotypical “Middle Eastern” van? I pay him no attention and note that I’m alone on the dark side street. No shebab [youth males] are even out to… “protect me” [what? My neighborhood shebab love me.] There’s only one street light on. He does the classic follow behind and then speed up, rolling down his window to make kissing sounds and talk to me. I read the side of his van: Mohammad’s Plumbing Services.

This continues the whole way home, me ignoring him and him driving at 1mph to tail me. Eventually, I glare in his direction, hurl some [pathetically structured] insults and watch as he gets excited about how I’m showing a little life now. I definitely don’t want him to know what building I go into but I was just about home. In God’s sweet protection and provision, the bottom floor of my apartment building is a dukan [a little food/convenience shop—a gas station without the gas]. I walk up the stairs and am greeted by my three main men in the building, who take care of the place and subsequently… me. They only know “Helloooo” and “One, two, three” in English. So I say, in Arabic, “He is no good. He is my problem,” [Arabic’s hard…], and point to the guy waiting in the white plumbing van outside on the street. My three guys jump off their white plastic chairs and race outside, yelling at this man. All I heard was “shame on you!”, “American”, “blonde” and “good girl.” The rest, I’m sure, were bad words I’m not allowed to know.

The guy drives off, quickly realizing that he chose the wrong Shagra to follow, that I did have some male protection and that he did just waste 20 minutes of his night. I was exhausted and my guys could tell that. I sat and had some tea with them before going up to my apartment. I thanked them incessantly and they wished Allah’s protection on my life always. Sweet men.

I know, this makes my life seem so dramatic. But really, this is a story I wouldn’t even really share with friends in the ME—just because it’s “too everyday-ish.” This stuff happens all the time. And we just deal with it. I mean, when I noticed him following me, I just rolled my eyes and my temper flared up since I hadn’t fully recovered from being upset with my lazy taxi driver. When I talk to my married friends they say, “Oh, I just call my husband and he meets me outside and yells at the guy,” or does whatever the situation calls for. Well, guess what? I don’t have one of those—a husband.

I get to fight these fights by myself. Often, Father sends me men who can help, but ultimately, I’m alone in this.

And what makes me laugh is that married women look at me, with big, round eyes, filled with tears, pitying me that I don’t have a husband—especially for a night like this. Haha. No, I don’t have someone to fight for me. No, I don’t have someone to come home to and tell what happened in my day. [Instead, I blog.] And no, I don’t have someone to walk with me and avoid situations like this in the first place.

But I see it as God’s goodness to me right now:

• Other people are blessed by the time and energy I have to give them because I don’t have a husband or kids to be home for.
• I get to experience so many other families and friends because it’s just me—it’s easy to bring along just one more person into their families of 8… or 15.
• I’m forced to learn how to ask for help, trust other people and navigate “community.”
• He’s the one Who fights for me, protects me, provides for me…

It’s good for me to be single… let me be single. :)
No, I don't hate men—I adore them. I’m just not partnered with one right now.
Today, let me, and whatever single women around you, find delight in His perfect plan.
Remind us that we are useful and valuable to Father’s Family as His single daughters.
It’s not a pity—it’s great.
Just because it’s just hard sometimes, doesn’t mean it’s not Good.
I really just want people to “walk with me.”