NON-FICTION • 23
BY JAMIE HENDERSON
T
he first and last love letter I ever sent was returned to me with a prompt, if not exactly courteous, reply: “I’m flattered, but Christian guys like me don’t like girls who are so forward.” I. was. mortified. I had agonized over the email (yes, email) for days before I sent it, praying that I would get the wording just right so that my meaning would not be misconstrued: “Hi, you seem really cool and I’d like to get to know you!” Apparently, he had mistaken what I intended to be Southern charm for
an indecent proposal and, while I obviously know my own heart better than he did, I have spent the years since then replaying his rejection in my mind. It was the way he said “Christian guys like me” that made me feel sick to my stomach—Is he implying that I’m not a Christian because I reached out to him? Is he lumping me in with the likes of Delilah and Jezebel? I might as well change my Instagram bio to Proverbs 11:22 and accept my fate. Growing up, I’d often had boys in school tell me that
