No. 15: Rejoicing in Rejection

lets talk about the scary nos, shall we?

Ever since I could remember, I knew I was going to Baylor University. This was back before Baylor and Waco had been put on the map by increasingly more impressive sports seasons and, of course, the Midas touch of Queen Joanna Gaines. Back when every utterance of the school got the response, “did you mean Taylor University?” Or, “Isn’t that the place with the cult and all the Kool-Aid?” But I was undeterred. My parents had met at the school decades before against all odds. They’d taken us to visit the campus just about every year of my childhood, showing us the Bears sleeping in their questionable caves, wandering the bookstores and promptly leaving Waco right after because aside from campus, there wasn’t a single thing in it.

I didn’t have a backup school. I said it matter of factly for all of high school— “I’m going to Baylor.” Just like that. My sister got an academic scholarship to Baylor three years before me. My brother accepted a football scholarship from Baylor the year before me. There was simply no reason in the world why I wouldn’t get in.

That’s why when a thin letter from Baylor showed up in our mailbox rather than the thick packet, I set it on my dresser without even opening it and didn’t mention it to a soul for weeks.

I didn’t get in. It was a shock to everyone but most of all, to me. I need to clarify that this shock came not because I was so fantastic and irresistible, but because my dad is a Baylor legend. They loved him in a way that was almost suspicious. I think a long lost distant cousin with the same last name could vaguely mention breathing the same air as him in their application and be accepted on the spot—we’re talking that level of adoration. I was ashamed because I had pretty good grades and wonderful extracurriculars. I was the captain of my volleyball team and excelled in the fine art program. More than that, I was a Singletary. And none of it mattered because they didn’t want me.

The thing is, Baylor is where I was supposed to find my husband. You have to remember, this was a time where every movie, show, magazine and person I knew in real life proudly shared that they had met their spouse in high school or college. The high school ship had sailed, so all my eggs were in the college basket. When I ended up at a school studying Fine Art and Fashion Merchandising, I couldn’t help but notice the constant knot in my stomach. The knot only grew when I started classes and my suspicions were confirmed: the vast majority of my male classmates were purely interested in my other male classmates. They were wonderful and talented and all, but straight they were not. On top of that, I didn’t even live on campus. I sat on the train for an hour every day to get to class in the city while living in an apartment in the small suburb where I grew up. My Bible Study group was comprised of my my aunt, my mom’s mentor and a pastor friend. I worked in a chocolate shop that had the foot traffic of a bomb shelter…so how was I supposed to meet my husband?