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A couple weeks ago, I went to a business convention. A bit worn down from the day of travel and the stress of trying to remember the names of all the people I'd just met, I slumped into my chair at a plenary session, hoping whoever was going to speak would make his presentation short so I could head for my hotel room.

That's when I noticed him.

An oh-so-handsome, sophisticated man, who, from what I overheard of his conversations, seemed very confident in his Christianity. He had a deep, explosive laugh that dared the listener (in my case, the clandestine listener) not to laugh along. He wasn't that much older than I am, and was clearly well-versed in the things I love to talk, think, and write about.

Just. My. Type. And just a few feet away!

First, I was stunned. Then I felt a twinge in my heart, a flutter it took me a moment to recognize. All at once I felt all cartoony, twitterpated, and full of irrational exuberance.

For a moment, I felt confused and foolish for responding this way. It's not as though this man seemed at all interested in me. I doubt I'll ever see him again, or that anything will develop from that short, conference-based sighting. But later, as I wrote about it on the pages of my journal, chatted with my mom, and debriefed with friends, I slowly realized why I felt so good.

For the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful. Seeing this guy gave me concrete proof that the kind of man I want to marry exists, and reminded me that God is capable of bringing us together—if nothing else, at least into the same room!

When it comes to my desire to marry someday, hope often demands more faith than I have. For me, it's safer to believe what I see. It's simpler to look at the sociological studies that point out that women in my demographic have a shrinking pool of eligible, low-baggage bachelors to choose from and conclude that the right man probably isn't coming along. It's easier to look around and realize I haven't met him at work or church and decide I'm better off not dreaming about him.

That way, I can focus totally on living in contented, purposeful singleness without the potential for disappointment. I can make plans for me, just me, without including the hope of this husband I've yet to meet. I can focus my prayers on my friends, my goals, my commitments, instead of directing a few prayers toward the dream of praying with him for our life together. Between coming up with droll, witty comebacks for well-meaning people who wonder why I'm not married and pretending I don't want marriage because maybe I won't have it, I can feign indifference. I can hope that if I ignore this desire, sublimate it, even spiritualize it, maybe it will go away.

But hope is dangerous. If I hope for marriage and children, I open myself to the possibility of yes and no. I concede that I will be disappointed if my story doesn't unfold this way. I acknowledge that although I've been able to accomplish most everything I've tried so far, there may be a part of my life, an important part, beyond my control. I recognize a yearning that the love of my family, an enjoyable career, and other meaningful relationships can't completely satisfy. I open my heart to risk love and my mind to wrestle with the difficult reality that the God I trust may allow me to experience heartbreak, failure, uncertainty. I begin to think not only about how my life will take shape if it doesn't happen, but also what it will look like if … it does.

Hope is such a treacherous, delicate place, alternately terrifying and beautiful. It's a place of holy dissatisfaction where all Christians live, whether single or married. In some sense, we're all called to thrive where we are, even as we hope for the "next" place—the next oasis during times of spiritual barrenness, the next season of contentment, our final heavenly home. I've seen that tension in my life as I've decorated my apartment, wishing I was decorating "ours." I've visited my family for holidays, wondering what it would be like to visit two sets of parents. I've bought birthday gifts and thought about what he might like to receive. I've recognized that single life isn't second-best, and committed to live as fully as I dare. But now, I've also given myself permission to hope and pray for marriage.

I'm not completely sure why God allowed me to see this man who seems so right for me. I don't know if he's priming me for someone just around the corner, or whether he's simply fanning the embers of hope in my heart. I don't pretend to understand the matrix of free will and God's sovereignty and how it applies to my maybe-marriage. But a part of me is deeply grateful that he cares enough to challenge me to live more fully by venturing to hope. His promises—and that sighting!—are reason enough.

Tamara Lawton is a pseudonym for a writer who lives in the Chicago area.

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