On one of my last days in Turkmenistan, my friend, Nicky, made me pinky swear that I wouldn’t stay in St. Louis. “You’re not going to meet a guy there.” She didn’t need to say that, I already knew it. My plan was to go home for a couple months, long enough to enjoy my family and see some friends, and then I was going to hightail it to some booming metropolis. So when I got to the States, I hit the ground running. “Here are the restaurants you need to take me to,” I said. “These are the places in Michigan I need to see before I leave again.” I made dates with friends and trekked out to Nevada. And I sped toward the exit of grad school. I filled out applications; I wrote essays; I polished up a writing sample again and again. I had multiple charts on giant butcher paper outlining the where, what, and how of each program I was applying to. I pestered references for letters. I planned as though I would be leaving in the fall.
I auditioned for Spamalot as something to help pass the time while I waited for word from grad schools. I don’t really remember the first time I met Nathan. It’s not like we formally introduced ourselves to each other. I knew his name because people referenced him and he knew mine for the same reason. I’m an introvert, and for the first month of rehearsals I read a book when I wasn’t in a scene. I was uninterested in guys. I had no expectation or desire to meet anyone. I was still a little emotionally invested in my ex and was planning on jetting soon anyway. And it was Gratiot County, where dreams of intelligent single men go to die. Then one day I overheard someone mention that Nathan worked at a church. “Well, he could be interesting to talk to,” I thought. I was still only concerned with passing my time and knew he wouldn’t be someone I would even consider dating anyway because I disagree with his church’s stance on women in leadership. Besides, I was still speeding toward that exit.
Then the light turned red. I was rejected by all four programs. Correction: I was rejected by three programs and put on the waitlist at the fourth, thus raising my hopes up only to dash them a month later. I was angry. Stupid red light. But my anger didn’t last long. I realized I was having a blast at Spamalot rehearsals, and around that time I had started to get more involved with my church. I was working a part time job, and while I longed for the independence a full time job would provide, the extra time I had could be put to use on my New Year’s goals of reading a book a week and writing a blog post each week.
Then a really strange thing happened. Against all expectations, I started dating someone I met in Gratiot County. This is where I confess that even I have prejudices. I had assumed certain things about Nathan based on his background and denomination. One by one, he proved those assumptions wrong. And it became clear that we are very similar. I still sort of can’t believe how compatible we are. And if it hadn’t been for the red light, I wouldn’t have given a relationship a chance. I wouldn’t have even been in Second Samuel, the play where we finally acknowledged our attraction to one another. And I wouldn’t have joined my church’s missions team or lay preaching team. That red light meant I experienced a lot of good things that I wouldn’t have otherwise.
The other day when Nathan and I were driving, we came to a stoplight and I said, “You know what the great thing about red lights is?” “No, what?” “You can do this,” and I leaned over and kissed him. Now it’s our thing. Each red light is an opportunity for smooches. And life’s red lights can be opportunities for more good things if we’re open to what God has planned for those pauses.