I remember the crisp, fall afternoon like it was yesterday. With about a year’s worth of God-following under my belt, I was proudly sharing about my newfound faith with a man I’d looked-up to for a long time. Even as a less than religious teenager, I’d always admired when this former teacher and coach told me, “Wait for it, Abbie. That is of the best gifts you can offer God and yourself and the man you marry. Be patient,” he’d say. The theological reasoning here wasn’t the compelling part, but rather, it was this man’s pursuit of something worth living for, or waiting for. In a matter of moments, however, my stained glass window of him shattered.

I giddily explained how I understood and agreed with his thoughts on “waiting” now, and that such abstinence had actually grown as something of an endearment to me. He didn’t respond much at first, but stared at me with this drawn-out, almost condescending grin. It was like my nineteen-year-old passion had been squashed into the conscience of a nine-month-old who spilled her milk. Without any words being communicated, I felt like I’d done something wrong, or stupid, or worth punishment? It was like I’d just shared the stupidest idea on earth? But wait a minute, this was the man who encouraged me, and drew me, in so many ways, toward the idea of waiting for sex until marriage?