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He told me a long and perilous story about his bad marriage, his parents’ neglect.I didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t, but I listened.“That’s a little promise I made between me and God.After the divorce I bought this ring in a junk shop, and told God that I wouldn’t take it off until I found the right woman.” I wanted to reach out, hug him, and tell him I understood.He was handsome, wore glasses, was going slightly gray, and edged a little on the nerdy side: perfect.I was a 33-year-old Lutheran deacon-in-training trying to convince myself I didn’t want to have sex with him, even though I did.
Though I knew it would be hard, I vowed to live more chastely, determined to curb any libidinous activity until I was at least in a solid relationship with a decent Christian man.
I figured this was the most authentic act of faith: to listen and forgive.
We met at a nicer restaurant across the street from the Mc Donald’s.
I sounded as if I were reading off the menu from Le Pain Quotidian, but he humored me with applause.
“You’re accent is superb,” he said.“Thank you,” I said, flattered.
As we walked, he opened up, admitting that he occasionally still worked with his ex-wife, whom he met while studying in Mexico City.