The end of October is a time laden with anxiety for young Christian women. The stress that revolves around finding a bargain on a pair of riding boots is the culprit of many sleepless nights. And then there’s the candy that shrouds every aisle at the grocery store that calls to you in a sweet whisper, “Take me home and have your way with me,” which you eventually do and house a whole bag of peanut butter M&Ms in one night over a few episodes on Netflix.

And then there’s the stress that causes your hair to jump ship as if your head were the Titanic—finding an appropriate Halloween costume.

If only you could don the typical costume a girl your age usually wears—a cat, a maid, or a bunny who all happen to live in the town of Promiscuity. But no, you can’t. You are a good Christian girl. You don’t want to be “that girl” at your Christian young adult Halloween party in a skintight black pleather outfit that really has no resemblance to a cat whatsoever. It would cause gentlemen to stumble. Or become nauseated, as you really wouldn’t look good in all black pleather since you did house that whole bag of peanut butter M&Ms.

Curses, Christian morals and wise standards for living!

So instead you Google image “clean Halloween costumes” and this pops up:


Remember what you learned in your trips to the library in middle school about being specific with your search terms and quotations marks, etc. and try again.

You’ll yield results that are only applicable to babies. And parents with babies. And babies with other babies. And babies as food objects:

food baby

This will make you hungry. Decide to eat anything in your kitchen that has some sugar content and then return to your quest at hand.

You contemplate going topical—but let’s face it, everyone is going to be Kate Middleton in a brunette wig and plastic baby from Walmart on their hip. You don’t even know a balding young man to be your prince anyway.

There’s also the option of sculpting your hair into a tornado-esque fashion and planting dozens of plastic sharks in there. This will require at least a dozen bottles of hair spray and at least 3 more viewings of Sharknado.

Decide to turn to the Bible for inspiration. Eve pre-fall would be the cheapest option that requires no preparation whatsoever but, while biblical, is entirely inappropriate and worse than all pleather (even if you decide to use leaves). Remember the no-longer-in-existence bag of peanut butter M&Ms.

You contemplate taking the mundane inanimate object route by fashioning yards of tulle to yourself as your shower luffa. Purchasing a bottle of bubbles would make the costume that much more realistic.

You’ll find you are getting progressively even more indecisive in your elder years and can’t make decisions about dinner let alone a costume. Decide to not decide and be all the costumes combined. Eve, who is dressed (thankfully) as Kate Middleton, who was picked up by a tornado during her most recent visit to the coast of California, who also has an affinity for shower luffas, and in an act of rebellion against the royal family, throws on a headband with black felt cat ears attached.

Decide to begin planning ahead for next year’s Halloween costume the same day all those leftover peanut butter M&Ms go on clearance.

photos: and


If you were actually good at matchmaking, your track record would yield a percentage higher than 0%. You blame your lack of success on the shallow baby pool of eligible bachelors in your sphere of influence. How can you find suitable mates for your abundance of eligible girlfriends (let alone yourself) when the baby pool holds an inch of stagnant water that just produces mosquitoes you want to swat? So when you hear tale of a young adult singles mixer put on by several churches in the area, you decide to take several of your single eligible girlfriends on a search for their future husbands at the miniature golf course. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a hole in one for yourself.

On your way to the miniature golf place, you realize that crevices you never knew you had begin to sweat. You crank up the air conditioner when it’s only 62 degrees outside. You’re thankful you happen to have a stick of deodorant in your bag and you reapply. Generously. You’re not sure what anxiety attacks are, but you’re pretty sure you feel one coming on. You pull into the parking lot and see a group of people standing in front of the main entrance. Your breathing begins to sound like a woman in labor. Having sextuplets.

You are pretty sure this is going to be more awkward than a trip to see the gynecologist. At least you don’t have to worry about your gyno asking for your number afterwards.

Your friend who RSVPed online says she’s pretty sure the last time she checked there was only one guy signed up to attend. You park and peer over the dashboard expecting to see a circle of females dancing around one socially awkward guy in the middle not unlike a tribal dance of a Pacific Island country. Instead, you see 12 girls and 5 guys standing around awkwardly in no circular or remotely geometric pattern whatsoever.

You decide to get outside the car and nonchalantly walk by the group to see if any of the five men are eligible contenders. After all, they don’t know who you are or what you look like. They only know the name of your friend who RSVPed online. You’re safe.

Upon closer examination you notice that all the males look like they attended high school in their living room and one man in particular looks at least 75 years old. And he’s sporting a cane.

Resist all urges to scream “GRANDPA?!”

That’s when one of the guys looks in your direction and yells “SHANIQUA (real name of friend protected along with her damaged pride)? IS THAT YOU?”

You turn to your friend who RSVPed online and she looks at you and you look at your other friend. You are caught in a triangular staring contest. The sun is shining and the air holds the promise of fall. And your hair looks pretty good today if you do say so yourself. After all, you haven’t played mini golf in a while. It would be fun. After all, age ain’t nothing but a number. Grandpa may be your hole in your one—he may have saved up enough money in the past 60 years to pay off all your school loans.

That’s when your sweat glands go into overdrive and your shoes squeak as you pivot 180 degrees and take off sprinting towards the car. You and your friends jump in and you burn rubber as you speed as far away from the miniature golf course as possible towards home.

Decide to put your faith into a Heavenly Matchmaker whose track record allows Him to lead you to any pool He pleases. In-ground, above ground, baby pool, or on the rare circumstances, a really clean pond.


“Blurred Lines” should be your middle name. According to the most current statistics that were just published while writing this sentence, one out of every two things that comes out of your mouth is 100% inappropriate.

If biting sarcasm were a fine wine, you would have Pinot Grigio pouring out of your pores. If gossip were counted in Chickfila nuggets, you’d have yourself a party platter. If “let’s pick out all the flaws in every single guy we know” were a game show, you’d be the host. If sexual innuendo were an art, you would be Michael Angelo. You could have painted the Sistine Chapel on your apartment’s ceiling 13 times over.

And then—BAM. You get slapped in the face by one of those flying fish while in a boat going down a river that actually has those flying fish that jump into your boat and slap you in the face. If the fish in this scenario was actually a metaphor for something real, he would be the Holy Spirit.

So you’re sitting there with your face red and it stings and you’re feeling bad because you realize you hurt someone or your own reputation has been hurt. And then the HS pours some salt on your open wound and has you flip your Bible to James 3. You realize if your tongue were fire, you would have burned down the whole forest 13 times over.


So you know it’s time to make amends. Time to stop having praise and cursing coming out of the same mouth. It’s time to be a fresh spring. So with the help of the HS on your side, you keep yourself accountable by:

  1. Taking a deep breath while praying for help from HS
  2. Counting to five
  3. Biting your lip
  4. Crossing your index finger and middle finger from your right hand over your index finger and middle finger from your left hand
  5. Saying “pound sign inapprops!”
  6. Changing the subject or removing yourself from the conversation

So when you are at a BBQ for your young adult bible study and your male friend says to you while holding a hamburger, “Can you grab my buns?” you take a deep breath, call on your homeboy HS, and count to five. And when he adds “They are nice and soft,” you bite your lip. And crossing your index finger and middle finger from your right hand over your index finger and middle finger on your left hand, you fasten for yourself a pound sign (also known as the “hashtag”) and scream “POUND SIGN INAPPROPS!” You throw him the bag of hamburger buns and then you immediately get into your car and drive home.

If the hashtag were a person, he would be a billionaire off all the royalties.