A gaggle of white college girls spilled out onto the cobblestone brick street. We were giggling and chatting about meaningless and insignificant topics like coffee and fashion. We walked past designer clothing boutiques and luxury handbag stores. I had even pinned my hair back in an attempt to look presentable; no one wants to be the only girl in the whole bible study whose hair is a mess. 

 I told some half-assed joke about the wealthy people that must live in this part of town, and the girls laughed hysterically, as if they had never heard anyone poke fun at well-to-do Grand Rapids Christians before. Why did they find that so funny? I readjusted my plaid scarf around my neck uncomfortably and wondered why I was the only one in the group that ever made any jokes. 

The bible study girls reminded me of the kids I knew from Christian school, each one of them with a parent making six figures. It was at school that I learned the value of putting God first and yourself last, and that presenting yourself to others as put-together and morally perfect was just as important.

We finally arrived at an artisan macaron shop; the name of the business written in white cursive letters on the front window. Our leader opened the door for us and we all filed in, each of the girls letting out an excited little gasp as their eyes settled on the shop’s interior. 

Before us stood many little white tables, each made of fake marble. There were small wooden chairs garnished with frilly pink decorative pillows. On the left side of the shop was a glass display case full of rows and rows of tiny, colorful macarons, flavors ranging from salted caramel to matcha green tea. 

The macaron shop reminded me of my aunt’s house. It makes me think of the way she decorated her walls with bible verses and how her throw pillow selection always followed a specific color palette. It made me think of the immense amount of money she had, and the way she loved God but looked down on those who had less than her. 

I waited in line as each girl placed her macaron order, all of them excitedly chatting with one another about the different flavor options. We then proceeded to pull some of the little tables together so there was room for all nine of us to sit down.

“Girls!” our leader began enthusiastically as we all found our seats. She was a fellow college student, just one year older than the rest of us. The slight age difference evidently brought her no additional wisdom, yet she seemed to think her age entitled her to be our mentor. “We have a special surprise for you!”

She motioned to her co-leader, another college sophomore with the best of intentions but no understanding of any worlds other than her own. She clapped her hands excitedly and began passing out colorful glitter pens and white sheets of stationary bordered with red and pink flowers.

Our leaders then proceeded to explain that because Valentine’s Day was coming up, we were going to write letters to our future husbands. The group erupted into giddy chatter as the girls expressed how adorable that idea was and how much they loved the pretty pink pattern on the stationary. I tried pretending to be excited about the concept, but something within me coiled at the thought of writing a letter to a husband that may not exist. 

My Bible study leaders often reminded me of my grandpa, a hard-working farm-type who told me at a young age that my purpose was to find a good Christian husband to take care of me. He wanted me to one day have a fancy, Jesus-decorated house just like my aunt, and I had been too little at the time to consider any other possibilities for my future. I had always done my best to convince him that my future plans and goals were the same as his. Were these girls doing the same? Or was finding a husband really what mattered most to them?

“Letters to our future husbands?” I began hesitantly. “Doesn’t that seem…kind of presumptuous?”

The girls quieted again and stared at me blankly.

“I mean, there’s no guarantee that we will all have husbands one day,” I continue

Some of the girls’ eyes widened, and no one said anything. 

“We don’t know God’s plan,” I added hastily. “I don’t really want to spend my days dreaming about a guy that may or may not exist…it’s not like my life is incomplete and my purpose unfulfilled without a man in it, you know?”

“You need to trust that God will provide,” the leader said, her head cocked to the side in annoyance. “This letter exercise is going to remind us that our husbands are out there. And one day, when you finally meet him, you will give him this letter and he will know that you’ve always been thinking about him and praying for him.”

I opened my mouth to say more, but the leader shot me an aggressive warning look that made me shut up and look down at the table in embarrassment. My brow furrowed in frustration as the rest of the girls resumed daydreaming about their future husbands and started doodling on the floral stationary.

No one likes to be an outsider. It’s especially difficult when you’ve become so good at pretending to fit in, you’re the only one who knows you don’t belong. I left the macaron shop that night with a sour taste in my mouth. It wasn’t until years later that I found the courage to tell them that I never even liked macarons.