The Battle for Basement Cake

Since it was my first time at a new church, I slouched against the wall in the foyer with my arms crossed, glaring at everyone that passed by me without saying 'hi' through the tiny slits that remained of my eyes. The rest of my face had been taken over by a full-fledged scowl, what is likely the ugliest version of of me.

The following is the conversation I had (with myself) in my head:

It was then that I decided that since I was looking for a church, I was going to push myself to intentionally engage with the church goers, radical concept eh?

 (those of you who know me, know that I am quite outgoing and boisterous... I am now at least. But when I first meet people, especially groups of people-- I become very skitterish and nervous. If I know only one person, I will cower behind them and hope they introduce me to someone... or I make inappropriate jokes)

 I put this *new practice* into action the following Sunday, picking an old, small little church down the street from my house. (Their sign always had funny statements on it, and their website looked a little dated-- which I typically take as a good sign that they are busy doing more awesome things than updating their logo.)   The service was small, about 50 or so attendants of a variety of ages, and a modest band.

 I arrived 10 minutes late, as to miss the awkward and unavoidable pacing around the foyer, trying to disguise the fact that I knew absolutely no one, and I am scared poopless. I snuck in after the first couple of songs and slinked into one of the pews at the back. After the sermon, I was feeling kind of stupid because I hadn't been 'successful' in engaging (hadn't even tried); luckily the pastor proclaimed that there would be coffee, tea, and cake in the basement after the service!

Basement Cake?!
 My favorite.

Actually, I don't like cake, and I am not particularly a fan of basements

Nevertheless I decided that this was the PERFECT opportunity to be approachable, friendly, and engaging. So, I stood up-- with every intention of going downstairs for some basement cake. However, once my legs started walking, they walked me right out of the church. I stood on a small patch of lawn, eyes adjusting to the dramatic lighting change, and wondered "how am I here?"

I turned around and faced the church again.

  This will not be another one of those stories 

where I claim this church isn't good for me, but I didn't actually try it. 

So I marched myself back in there. I made it halfway down the stairs before I stopped (again).

 Boy its warm in here... I must have a fever, I should leave. 

 Luckily there were two elderly men coming down the stairs behind me, so when I turned around to escape they were blocking my path.

 "Coming down for some cake?" they inquired.

I opened my mouth really wide in attempt to smile, then hoisted my checks and eyebrows up as high as they would go-- I figured this looked approachable. I couldn't figure out how to speak, so I just nodded and giggled. My legs moved very fast then, down the stairs away from the people who talked to me. (very poor technique for making friends).

 Hey they spoke to you! You must have mastered 'approachable'! 

Success! Try that same technique on the people in the basement cake line!

 I joined the line, and scanned the room. There were a couple of women serving the cake and coffee at the front of the line. Some senior men in the corner eating cake by an equally old piano, some senior women talking about quilting at the table in the center. All the young(ish) people were in the line, engaged in small group conversations. I stood there looking stupid, not sure where I fit. I contemplated why so many basements used flourescent lights when they make everyone look a little green. I reach the front of the line and received my basement cake, which was mostly icing, and a serving of coffee in a styrofoam cup. I scanned the room again, sweaty and smiling, shifting from foot to foot. 

 I don't know where to go. Don't want to sit by myself... 

eating alone reminds me of middle school. 

 Then my legs took over again. They skittered me right out of that room.' Rational thought' caught me at the base of the stairs.

 I can't go up there! That is defeat! and I've come so far! 

 I wish I could tell you that I turned around, walked confidently back into that room and started a conversation with a group of young(ish) people. We laughed about weird' christian-isms', like always having fake trees covered in twinkly lights, and then they invited me out to lunch!

But, I didn't.

 I opted to hide under the stairs and eat my cake. 

And I didn't enjoy it. 

 This is the most pathetic I think you have ever been. 

Sure, you managed to eat the basement cake-- 

but the point of coming down here isn't to eat basement cake, 

its to meet the basement people. 

Get up, act like yourself, and go into that room!

 So I did.

 I stood up, slammed back the rest of my coffee, and decided that I needed another cup (a reason to go back in!). I marched myself up to the counter and got a refill. Then I slid over to the group of senior men, because they were the closest. I stood in their semi-circle until their conversation stopped and they looked at me inquisitively.( I ran a couple of introductory statements through my head, but they were all jibberish and nonsensical.) I smiled, slightly less manic than the time on the stairs, and gracefully exited.

 I still wasn't brave enough to talk to the young(ish) people.

 So I plopped myself down between two elderly women.

 They were as surprised as I was that I joined them. Exhausted from the emotional stress I had put myself through the past 15 minutes, I bleated:

 "Hello! My name is Jordan. This is my first time at this church and I am absolutely terrified of all of you".

Between fits of laughter, one lady draped her arm over my shoulder and gave me some more basement cake, the other went and fetched their pastor. The pastor came over, introduced himself and asked me some questions. After we chatted a while he introduced me to some of the young(ish) people, whom I continued talking to for about 45 minutes. They did end up inviting me out to lunch that day, but I declined, because my clothes were saturated in sweat and I was on the brink of a diabetic coma from all the basement cake I had eaten.

My search for a 'home church' didn't end there, but I definitely became a little braver that day, a little more willing to put myself in uncomfortable or foreign situations. I still get nervous walking into a new church (in fact a couple weeks ago I read the church bulletin in a bathroom stall, cause I felt awkward standing by myself), but in the doorway I always think "well, it couldn't possibly be any worse" than that time. And when I see new people at church, I often think "I wonder if they would be more comfortable hiding under the stairs or reading that on the toilet" then I go and make sure that they are confident that the sanctuary is a better option, even with the florescent lights...

My Eggs are Dying, I have Scabies, and Other Laments of a Single Twenty-Something

It was a beautiful day in a quiet country garden, and a young, optimistic Jordan was enjoying the happiness that is typically included in wedding receptions. Sun gently warming her skin, the faint smell of expensive appetizing snacks wafting past her delicate nose, and all the other imagery that would lead you to believe that this was a beautiful moment.

It was. Until a wedding troll crept up behind her and snarled:

“Are you married?”

Slightly taken aback, she responded “Oh hello there! No, I am not.”

“How old ARE you?!”he sneered.

“I just turned twenty-four...”

“Wow, that’s spinster age!”

Luckily, she was snarky, sarcastic, and quick on the draw; she responded in mock horror “I know! My eggs are dying!”

As a young Christian woman in her early twenties, I have become increasingly aware of the pressure for a young Christian woman to marry, and to marry quickly (for heaven's sake) ; although the moment I just described, was probably the pinnacle.

After the pleasantries of “what is your name?” and “have you graduated from high school yet?” a typical conversation will veer into the marital status category. After confirming that I am not married, nor seeing anyone—I have noticed a theme in my interviewer’s reaction.

Those simple facts have rendered the individual’s face completely conquered by a myriad of emotion: surprise! sympathy?, DISGUST, a bladder infection? ... Usually followed up with a willful attempt at an encouraging smile. Sometimes their hands do a strange twitching dance at their sides, and for a moment I wonder if I should call the Mental Health Emergency Team.

“Oh, well... you are very beautiful. Keep leaning into God and he will bring the perfect man for you”

They speak as if I just told them I have chronic scabies.

If I haven’t a man by now, maybe I do have scabies,

Lying dormant somewhere in this barren shell of a woman.

And we all know, Scabies is not “the new sexy”.

These questions, while innocent and typically just inquisitive in nature, imply that the most important thing, the best way to get a glimpse of my character, is to inquire on whether I was successful in the art of man-wooing.

Once, I Google'd something about single Christians... and an article about sex-addicts was what came up.

“If it’s not my scabies that drives men into an itchy retreat,

 I must be single because I have chosen to be,

Because I am a sex-addict.”

Now you won't hear a sermon (at least I hope not) that teaches that if you are not married you are obviously defective and should be held in a separate room (or perhaps attend a separate service specifically for young adults, or better yet-- attend a bridal bible college!), but young single twenty-somethings are constantly being bombarded with questions about why they are single, or how long they plan on staying single, or whether they want to marry at all—by friends, family, people in the church parking lot, or by complete strangers.

 The message is clear... 

you should probably be married by now.

What’s worse is the message we are sending young women: your purpose is marriage.

 If you are not married, you are doing it wrong

and possibly not a godly woman

probably infected with scabies

at the very lease, a sex addict

What a frenzy this creates!

Are you a twenty-something? 

Has singleness plagued your existence?  

HURRY! Get a husband! 

ANY HUSBAND WILL DO!

I admit I have fallen to that trap myself-- The Man Hunt. There is a particular church in my community that caters to young adults, someone once suggested that I go there, to increase my chances of securing a spouse (not to enhance my spiritual growth).

"Let's go to the Meat Market, err Church... and find a husband-- 
I mean, Jesus"

 (I didn't end up going, because a) it felt creepy, and b) I am a strong supporter of the 'do not objectify women' cause and therefore the objectification of men seemed hypocritical).

And THAT is my issue. I have no issue with marriage. I have no issue with people getting married in their twenties (many of my friends have, and they are great spouses and awesome Christians). Nor do I think its a bad idea to find a husband at church (sometimes, there are Christians there!). What I am frustrated about is that fact that being in a romantic relationship seems to have taken the forefront of our minds-- a place that was created to be occupied by Christ alone.

I would love to one day be married. However, I believe that my purpose on this earth is to be fully loved, and fully in love with Christ. And that is where I would love my christian community to support me. I don't want to hear the preacher proclaim that seeking God is the most fulfilling and valuable aspect of my existence, only to step into the lobby and be informed that I will be complete once I have a husband.

Let's raise little girls who know that having a husband is a gift and a blessing, but that knowing and being with God is our ultimate purpose. Let's celebrate and encourage this time of singleness, a time in which we can devote ourselves completely to discovering the richness of God's presence in our lives; so that if the time comes, we can share that joy and wisdom with our husbands and our children.

(That seems like a better alternative to the frantic scabied sex-addicts romping through our churches, snatching all our people up. )