Dear sixteen-year-old Emily,
a few days Brent will dump you. The coolest guy in school. A
basketball star. And you will wonder if you should have let him. If you
should have pulled the Kleenex from your bra and the bra from your body
and let him.
But you didn't, and I know you feel like the last virgin standing —
you're not. In two years you'll meet a man at Bible School--a place you
said you'd never meet anyone because it's too cliche--who is waiting
for you. Who's only kissed two other girls, who will wait six months to
kiss you (his Dutch grandmother will kiss you on your lips before he
does) and the only time you'll ever see him cry will be when you tell
him what you've done with other boys.
He'll cry because he wants
to marry you. And even though you didn't ever let anyone make it home,
they still tried to round the bases. And he's waited his whole life to
hold your hand...
(for the rest of this post, please join me over HERE at Prodigal, friends... thank you! and please join us TOMORROW for imperfect prose! the prompt this week is "mother.")