Copyright © 2008
All rights reserved, The Wild Rose Press
It's a well-known fact that single women outnumber single men in the Church by a ratio of 3:1, probably 7:1 in my small town. Don't get me wrong, I still would have become a Christian, even if someone had warned me. But I can count the number of dates I've had in the last four years on one hand. Okay, so I don't really need a hand to count to zero, but that's beside the point.
The point is that today is the most dreaded day of the year for single women everywhere—including me—on the brink of turning thirty: Valentine's Day. I'm not a curmudgeon. I just happen to believe that retail-sponsored holidays, especially ones that exclude me, are dumb. Be my Valentine, blah, blah, blah.
For the last three years my parents—namely Mom—have sent flowers to me at the office. Pity flowers. They do it because they know, and expect, I won't be getting a special delivery from anyone else. Then when I thank them, they pretend not to know what I'm referring to and tell me I must have a secret admirer.
As if.
Which brings me back to no single men in the Church. Guys who have been Christians their whole lives seem to marry young. Then there are the men who come to Christ later in life after they've had their fill of worldly fun. (The “Recyclables,” as my mother calls them.) In our church there is only one single man of marrying age: Carter Lovelace, the new youth pastor.
His spirituality and laid-back personality draw people to him, or maybe it's his dark green eyes and tousled hair. The dude's a chick magnet. A stampede of high heels and skirts greeted Carter the day he entered the sanctuary, and in the few short months he's been with us, the population of single women has tripled in size.
Like we needed more.
But that's not important right now. What's important is that I'm at work, and across from me sits Mr. Jacob Afton, the biggest developer and real-estate tycoon in town. He owns restaurants, hotels, and office complexes, including the one that houses the company I work for, Weldon & Son's Financial Inc.
My leather chair squeaks, breaking the unnerving silence. I refuse to speak first, because he (or she) who speaks first, loses.
Let the showdown begin.