Tag Archives: Valentine’s Day

How To Be Single In Public

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I don’t exactly blend in with the crowd. I have a huge bushy mustache, borderline albino skin, and hairy legs à la Bigfoot. So you can imagine how going to a restaurant by myself on Valentine’s Day might have felt for me, the only single guy in sight. Like a Sasquatch hunt, and I’m the furry creature in the corner. Strangers staring wide-eyed, wondering if it could really be true — and if they should shoot me.

OK, it wasn’t that bad.

I’ve actually been practicing for a couple years — being single in public. It’s part of my journey to loving the single life. Every week or two I take a one-man field trip to Salt Lake City, where I grab coffee, tour a museum, hike the foothills, or wander around the cemetery (not creepy at all). I’ve learned to love going out on my own and yet being part of something bigger — the bustle and beauty of the city. As much as I love being with people, going solo every once in a while has helped me not only embrace being single, but also being SEEN as single.

This is light years from where I used to be. Back when I was nervous to go anywhere in public (except maybe the grocery store) without at least one friend to mask my singleness. But over the years I’ve learned that most people are too busy wondering what you’re thinking about them to give much thought about you. Ain’t nobody got time to scrutinize your love life (except trolls on the internet, of course). Nobody’s judging you for being single in public — even if you’re a mustachioed yeti, like me.

Besides a surge of starry-eyed lovers, Valentine’s Day wasn’t much different from any other day when I venture out on my own. After a few minutes, I even put down my beloved iPhone — the single person’s safety blanket. Instead, I enjoyed my meal, made eye contact with people, and brushed croissant crumbs from my mustache. You know, the usual. I also took a moment to appreciate being single — to thank God that I’m loved, even when I’m by myself, when people SEE me by myself. There’s freedom in those moments, when you realize your worth isn’t tied to anybody but Jesus himself.

That’s the important part. Remembering who you are in Christ: whole, redeemed, significant. A single person in a big love story. Even in a sea of strangers, there’s Someone who calls you by name and loves you beyond measure. So, go ahead. Go public with your singleness. Tell the world “Table for one.” Buy a movie ticket (singular). Take a trip and don’t feel like you need to explain where your friends are. Being single in public isn’t as bad as you think — it just takes a little practice and a lot of perspective.

And an iPhone doesn’t hurt!

A Very Celibate Valentine’s Day

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Last year, a friend of mine sent me a picture of his “hot” date on Valentine’s Day. It was a brownie topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream — and possibly human tears. (Cell phone camera, so it’s hard to say.) This is what Valentine’s Day can look like for single, celibate Christians.

But it doesn’t have to.

I’ve been single on Valentine’s Day for the past 32 years. (And every other day of the year, too, but that’s beside the point.) Yet somehow I’ve found things to love about it.

Remember in elementary school, when classmates passed out mandatory valentines and those horrible candy hearts? Sure, I got cards from people who’d never talk to me again after February 14, but it was fun getting “love notes” from the friends you cared about, and the kids who signed more than just their names.

When I was a teenager, sometimes my parents would leave me a gift on the kitchen counter. Maybe a stuffed animal or a coffee mug decked with hearts — just a little something to make Valentine’s Day special for the boy who never had a valentine. Meanwhile, hormonal girls at school huffed over not getting flowers from their insensitive boyfriends. Tragic…

In college, I’d often stay home on Valentine’s Day to spend time with my “Husband” (Isaiah 54:5). That’s about the time I fell in love with the Song of Solomon. I pored over Puritan commentaries, whose typological readings of the book celebrated the love between Christ and his bride, the Church. Coming to terms with faith and sexuality, learning what celibacy would look like for me, I took comfort in seeing God as the divine bridegroom — and I still do.

Today, at 32, I still love Valentine’s Day. I love reaching out to friends and family, or even someone who wouldn’t expect it, with a valentine via text. It’s also an opportunity to thank God for the gift of marriage — a chance to rejoice in marital bliss (even if it’s not my own). In the last few years, I’ve teamed up with friends to do outreach on Valentine’s Day, including helping a church host a dinner for homeless women, and rallying support for a fundraiser to aid victims of sex trafficking.

So yeah, Valentine’s Day isn’t a big cry-fest for me. It’s always been a day of love.

However, there are people in my life (and yours) for whom the holiday is unhappy. Maybe someone who is divorced or widowed. Maybe someone who really wants to be married and is wrestling with God’s timing and will. We ought to be gentle with their hearts, especially on a day when romance is shoved in our faces, as if that’s the only place to find love.

This year, Valentine’s Day is on Sunday. It’s a perfect opportunity to reach out to single folks in your church. Hug them. Kiss them. Tell them you love them. Tell them God loves them, too. Remind them love is real and available to them outside of marriage. There’s love in friendship — those people who’ve mastered the art of loving at all times (Proverbs 17:17). There’s love in the church body — a spiritual family that transcends bloodlines. There’s love in service — putting other people’s needs before your own. There’s love in the pages of Scripture, where God reveals his devotion to us. It’s all over the place, if someone would just remind us.

A very celibate Valentine’s Day can be a very happy one indeed. Come to think of it, brownies and a scoop of ice cream would make it even happier.

Hold the tears.