"I have to admit that I almost didn't come," the woman says sheepishly after a moment of shared sun–drunk reverie.
There are six of us single women sitting in the warm California sun eating identical lunches—turkey sandwiches, potato chips, and chocolate chip cookies. It's the Saturday lunch break of a two–day singles conference and a handful of us are sitting in the church's courtyard munching and mingling. Though we've just met, we've been talking about our similar single lives like long–lost friends.
It's as if the woman, Donna, just realized that her second thoughts about attending the conference almost robbed her of this camaraderie.
But the others grow silent at her admission, and I can feel a couple of them sneak glances at me, one of the conference speakers. Will I take offense at the fact that she wasn't the most enthusiastic attendee?
No one backs her up, so she explains and back pedals a bit. She was tired after a long week of work, so sitting in a church sanctuary listening to a couple of speakers on a Friday night didn't sound so appealing. And singles conferences can be such a mixed bag. More silence, more furtive glances in my direction.
I smile and reply, "I hear you; Friday nights can be exhausting. And singles events can be, well … interesting. "
The woman smiles her appreciation that I've helped save the conversation, a couple of the others chuckle their agreement, and we jump back to talking about the climate for singles in their respective churches. We're just commenting on how cool it is that so many of the volunteers at our conference are married couples, when one of the organizers calls us back inside for the final session.
As we all saunter back inside, I meander toward Donna and share some casual chit–chat, slowing our pace so the others make it to the sanctuary before we do. Finally it's just the two of us in the lobby, nonetheless I lower my voice and confide, "I totally understand what you were saying. Singles conferences can be more than just interesting, sometimes they can be awkward and weird. Or, I guess more accurately, I can feel awkward and weird about attending them. To be completely honest, when I'm not speaking at them, I rarely attend any."
I search her face for a reaction to my own admission and see a sense of relief and agreement in her knowing smile. "The funny thing is," she says, "I want to launch a ministry for single women. I'm even going back to school for that. I have a passion for this crowd," she gestures to the sanctuary, "but sometimes I just don't want to attend singles events."
"Well yeah, and I'm a singles columnist and speaker, and sometimes I don't either," I say, and we both laugh at our ironic attitudes.
I think back to my own reservations about this conference. A couple of the speakers were married—what would they possibly have to teach me about my single journey? And when I first stood at the podium and looked out at the parts of the crowd that seemed decidedly older than me, I wondered what on earth I could possibly teach them about theirs.
Nevertheless, I was challenged by one of the married speaker's newfound hunger for the Bible, and needed to hear another's impassioned reminder that God's crazy about single adults. Several people with lives very different from mine found me after my talk and affirmed our similar emotions and experiences in our single journeys.
Suddenly I find myself blurting to Donna—and myself, "I think my attitude has a lot to do with my pride. Showing up at a singles conference means not only am I embracing my singleness, I'm wanting to get better at it. Some days I don't want to get better at it. Who wants to get better at something you never really aspired to be? It's like if I embrace it that much, I fear it'll become a permanent status." I pause for a moment and let this surprising truth sink in, amazed by one of those random moments when my mouth articulates a truth my head has been wrestling with for months.
