Bell Tower Blues

“I’m not superstitious,” I announced my freshmen year of college. I booked it under the bell tower alone, listening to a few snickers from girls who thought this doomed me to singlehood at a small, private Christian university.

Fast forward to my senior year. I would see couples lying on the front lawn, intertwined like the chord of three strands in Ecclesiastes. I would glare at the bell tower and think, “Maybe I should have been superstitious.”

I even prolonged my chances by attending graduate school, which left me in the dire predicament of being both unmarried and overqualified for any kind of career. At this point, I was a can of gasoline and a match short of telling the bell tower what I really thought.

I drudge through these times once more because I was reminded—via Buzzfeed yesterday—just how prevalent these thoughts were in my mind.

Facebook conducted a study that concluded that nearly one-third of all married people on Facebook attended the same college. Guess what itsy bitsy college appeared on this list? Yep. My alma mater.

With just a few simple maps, my suspicions were confirmed: The hysteria that I had built up in my head wasn’t imagined. I wasn’t just picturing myself in a less exciting version of “The Bachelor.”

I have to laugh now because the bell tower really did me a favor. I was spared the consequences of my misguided, immature decisions; I was given the ability to see what I really needed rather than jumping headfirst into an undeveloped version of my happy ending.

Why was I so misguided?
· My view of a Christian leader was flawed. The poor dudes didn’t stand a chance. If they led a song during chapel, if they spoke up in Bible class, if they passed that communion tray with the finesse of a point guard, they were perfect for me. Take into consideration that hundreds of guys did this on a weekly basis and you have the makings for some woe-is-me’s. So many Christian guys. And they all act like I have leprosy. When this superficiality finally wore off, I was able to see a man (from a public university of all places- gasp!) who taught guitar lessons to little kids from church, who had old ladies doting over him. And I began to see a heart and not a checklist.

· I focused too much on being led and not leading. Before someone throws me into the fiery pit of submission verses, let me say: I very much feel that the husband should lead his wife and children. This does not excuse, however, the years that I sat on my couch—never cracking open a Bible—waiting for this George Clooney lookalike televangelist to launch me into a relationship with God. I guess I thought holding his hand would—through osmosis—send me into a thousand Hallelujahs. It doesn’t work that way. Does Justin sit me down every night and lead us in a Bible study? No. But you know what? I often stuff my face before I say, “Let’s pray.” It goes both ways.

· I wanted to be Mother Teresa. When the pew scouting became increasingly unsuccessful, I started on another project: Find a fixer upper. I couldn’t afford the flight to Africa so I suppose finding a bad boy was the logical next step. Turns out your cheesy camp counselor was right—it’s easier to pull someone off the folding chair than to pull them up there with you. And boy did I tumble off the folding chair. I once harped at my mother for not liking a particular person. She looked at me straight in the face and said, “I have never said I didn’t like him. You are projecting that on me because you are too afraid to admit that you don’t like him.” Touché. Operation aborted.

· I refused to admit that I cared. The worst part about all of these things is the ferocious denial I released on anyone who dared to mention marriage. I stalked men who led my favorite hymns while simultaneously judging girls who had the audacity to think they had to leave college married. I turned into this faux career woman who was too prideful to admit that I cared; that I wanted to be married; that I was hurt that I spent weekends eating half of a Pizza Pro pizza within the confines of my bunk bed. What is so wrong with just not having an explanation? Why do we feel the need to explain away our lives? It’s OK to care.

I’m not going to end this by saying, “Keep your head up, ladies, your time will come.” First, because I hated this and every other cliché spouted at me during the “Bell Tower period.” Second, because it implies that your life doesn’t begin until love happens—which couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Don’t be afraid to care, but also don’t fear a period of your life when you don’t care. It is during that time that fake beliefs and mistaken assumptions can take a hike back to that bell tower where they belong.

And life (and sometimes love) will happen when you least expect it. (You didn’t think you’d get away without one cheap shot cliché, did you?)