Almost 

I anticipated that the ninth date of a good shidduch would change my life forever, but not in the way it did. It was a Monday night, and Rachel* and I were sitting on a bench in Yemin Moshe, overlooking the Old City walls. In the back of my head, I could hear my mashgiach’s words, “After this many dates, you’re definitely heading toward an engagement. Get yourself ready.”

I was ready, I thought. I was 22 years old, thriving in yeshivah in Eretz Yisrael. Getting to where I was had been a challenge — after spending a summer with religious cousins nine years earlier, I strove to keep halachah despite my parents’ opposition. In the ensuing years, I’d woken up daily before dawn to daven before school, bought and made my own kosher meals, and hurried by mass transit every Friday after school to my cousins for Shabbos. Now I was between college and career, finally able to immerse myself in a Torahdig environment.

In addition to the worlds of Torah that were opening for me and being in the company of great rebbeim who were dedicated to assisting us in every way possible, it was my first time being among like-minded young men, all seeking to grow in a positive direction. My connection to Yiddishkeit propelled me to new levels, and I felt like after having given up so much for Hashem, it was time to take the next step on my upward journey.

In my mind, marriage was that step. Many of my yeshivah friends — ten that year! — had gotten engaged and married. I thought that if these guys were frum for much less time than I had been, and yet they were making serious commitments to build their new homes on Torah, then I was certainly ready.