My friend Diane got married recently. Walking down the aisle, smiling big, she winked as she passed me. She was stepping into a new season of life—a husband, a new home, new responsibilities … sex. I chuckled at the thought of the "s" word. Diane and Bill hadn't even kissed yet. They wanted to wait until their wedding day. Hence, their dating intimacy had consisted of lingering handshakes, brief hugs, and very few moments completely alone together. "We hold hands and look at each other a lot," Diane once confessed. (Oh, please!) To this day I shake my head every time I think of it.
We've always been different, Diane and I. My mind drifts to the time when a man like Bill was nothing more than a whisper of hope hidden in Diane's heart. Back then we talked about men, marriage, romance, and sex. I was the verbal one; Diane, more modest. I'll never forget how her mouth flew open when I approached our pastor's wife with a fairly provocative question about sex. "I don't want to hear this!" Diane protested adamantly. She covered her ears and stomped away before the pastor's wife could answer. Me? I had no shame. God would send me a husband one day; I wanted to be ready!
Diane says I think about sex too much and must learn to master my bodily urges. I tell her I'd rather let a man do that. She says I'm carnal. I say I'm passionate. She says I must wait on God. I tell her I think God's watch must be broken because he's running a bit late. She says I'm silly because God invented time and doesn't even need a watch. I hate it when she gets theological on me.1