Crushed Dreams Turned Into Unexpected Blessings When I Let Go

On my 50th birthday, he said “goodbye.”

We were on a two-week break.

It was August 2014, and we had been dating for almost a year. I was about to turn 50, and it was time to draw the line. I wanted to be married, but he was afraid.

Yet still, he would whisper sweet endearments into my ear as we snuggled together on his sofa watching TV.

“I can get used to this, you know?” he said as he squeezed me closer.

“What?” I asked, knowing full well what he was talking about. I just wanted to hear him say it.

“Cuddling with you in the evenings and watching TV,” he said. “It feels nice.”

It did to me, too. I was caught!

At 49, I was finally living the life I used to dream about in high school. I recently moved to Florida and lived across the street from the beach. I found a great church and made friends with some people who ran a skateboard ministry for kids called Skateboarders for Christ.

At 41, I first stepped onto a skateboard and learned to surf soon after.

At 46, I dropped in the mini ramp for the first time, and the rush was exhilarating! Far more of a trip than any drug could have given me as a teen, I thought.

But standing on the ledge of an empty pool with my skateboard hanging off by two wheels and feeling the “woosh” as I dropped down the side of the wall was a high like no other.

I experienced the same type of high the one time I caught a gigantic wave during hurricane season in Florida, and I dropped down with the wave before riding it into shore.

“Whoo hoo!” I yelled.

I felt invincible!

Now I understood why people were addicted to surfing.

So here I was, lounging with the man I felt God had me wait all these years for. He still sported an athletic build with a muscular upper body seen on competitive swimmers. And he happened to be the president of the local chapter of Christian Surfers. With his bronze skin and wavy (now gray) shoulder-length hair that flapped in the breeze, he rode the waves like a pro.

At least, that’s how I saw him.

He was a skater, too, though he rarely got on the board anymore. Too dangerous when you’re in your 50s, he adamantly stated.

But he loved to watch me skate.

We spent almost every day together, and the first thing we did when he got off work was hop on the bikes and ride to the beach to check the waves. Something surfers do several times a day.

I felt like I was in the middle of those teenage movies where the popular cheerleaders hung out with the pro football players — or, in this case, the pro surfers.

My moment had finally come.

Until it didn’t.

We discussed the future. He was about to retire, and the person above him in Christian Surfers wanted him to take over his position. That would mean many mission trips to Costa Rica. I was living a dream!

“I can really see a future for us,” he said on more than one occasion.

One evening, while we were eating dinner, he suddenly blurted out, “Oh my gosh! I just realized something. You could be my wife!”

I hung my head shyly and blushed. This was it. Finally, at almost 50 years of age, my time had come.

It wasn’t long after that things began to change. The many calls he made to me throughout the day became more infrequent, almost forced.

His conversations became scripted like he was going through the motions. His heart wasn’t in it anymore.

It looked like my time was not going to come, and I was crushed.

During our courtship, I was training to become a foster parent. The training was now over, and it was time to accept my first child.

If I were going to be married and travel with him as a missionary, then I would abandon the idea of taking in a foster child. However, I didn’t tell him this. I didn’t want to appear too eager.

I wanted him to know that I was independent. I loved him, but I could live without him.

At the time, I never knew how he felt about this.

He would sometimes ask, “So you’re really going to go through with it? Be a foster parent?”

“Yeah. I am,” I said. Only because it looked like he would never ask me to marry him, and I wanted a purpose–a family. I didn’t want to put it off if he was not going to marry me.

The break was my idea. I could tell something had changed. He didn’t seem to want to be around me anymore.

Though he insisted that he still loved me, I didn’t believe him. So we agreed not to see each other and take time to pray about where our relationship was going.

By this time, I was already fostering an eight-year-old girl, and she was settling into our routine. He was cordial to her but still distant.

Eventually, August 15 came, ending our two-week separation, and he broke up with me. I just turned 50.

One’s 50th birthday is hard enough to face on its own. You’re getting old. You’re likely more than halfway through your life.

I had waited so long to be married and have a family; now, my hopes were dashed.

I didn’t want to let go.

I aged the day he broke up with me. I felt old. I felt lost.

I felt forgotten by God.

Though my life was just beginning as a new foster mom, it seemed happiness had passed me by. I was numb, living life on automatic.

It took about three years for me to come out of my shell and begin to live again. Though I left him physically, I still held on in my heart.

Yet, over time, I realized I was thankful to God for giving me my childhood fantasy romance. At 49, living the tropical beach life I dreamed of as a child was a miracle!

About five years later, it suddenly dawned on me that it wasn’t me he was rejecting.

He didn’t want kids!

He had already raised a son who was about to graduate high school when we broke up. He had briefly mentioned one evening at dinner that he didn’t want kids anymore.

And I forgot!

So, when I told him that I was going to follow through with becoming a foster parent, he began to change. I never honestly told him my heart.

Finally, the last bit of freedom I needed to step into the life God had planned for me came. I was able to let go.

Today, I am 60. In the past ten years, I have cared for about 15 foster kids and adopted three beautiful boys.

My oldest turned 19 a few months ago, and I’m still raising a seven and ten-year-old, both with special needs.

I have my family, I have God, and my life is just taking off.

Thanks Bella Smith ⭐ for this week’s Moody Monday writing prompt, the ache of holding on to someone who’s letting go.

© Alexandra Christensen 2024. All Rights Reserved.