In other words, to see ourselves as Jesus saw us: in Christian-ese, as “Daughters of the King.”But there’s a tiny hang-up in this idealized world of swashbuckling romantic ideals: Mr. After all, as our relationships with Jesus got deeper and deeper, our standards for future IRL relationships were getting more and more out of touch with reality.
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After a decade-long domestic partnership with Jesus, I eventually cut romantic ties with my maker and started a real-life relationship with a real guy. While Jesus held my metaphorical hand, man held my actual hand — and told me he loved me, with a voice that was audible.
He was also frustrating, though; he made a habit of misreading my thoughts, and was notably short on patience.
Stuck in wifi-free missionary housing during our early 20s, my girlfriends and I would compile lists of every ethereal, desirable quality in a man — and an ominous gulf opened between expectation and reality. You could fit them all into a shot glass, not that you’d ever find one in a missionary house.
Add to that the double whammy that, in the church, unmarried women don’t have the same social status as unmarried men — and that premarital dalliances are not tolerated. While the typical evangelical woman smugly perceives her secular sisters as hopelessly lost in self-sabotaging Tinder trysts and doomed to marry a partner of less-than-saintly character, she herself is hopelessly stuck in the Jesus-is-my-boyfriend camp.