Love Story (6): Proposal

{Just joining us?  You can find Part 1 here}

After a year of struggling to get to one another, the Professor and I were excited for a summer together.

He worked second shift for a printing company, and I had an internship with 4-H (dream job!), so we kept obscene hours, usually until 3AM or later.  Looking back, I wonder when I slept...but I didn't worry about it then.

The Professor had a few big ticket items on his summer to-buy list: a car.  And an engagement ring.

Now, this was no secret to me.  The boy wouldn't tell me he loved me (or kiss me) until he knew I'd marry him someday.  Then he started asking me about rings.  I talked him through online buying when it came time (he was too shy to go into a jewelry store--since remedied).  He even called and asked for a pep talk before asking my dad's permission.

But when he actually popped the question...I didn't see it coming at all.

I had been away at the state fair for over a week; the Professor drove two hours, picked me up, got me a Dr. Pepper, and caught me up on life back home while I'd been gone.

We brought in my luggage and talked with my folks for awhile.  They excused themselves to bed around 10, and after a week sharing a hotel room with three girls, I was eager to say a fond hello to my own bed.

"Let's go out to the barn," the Professor said.

Inwardly, I groaned, but I loved this guy and hadn't seen him in ages, so out to the barn we went.  I got reacquainted with the dog, the cats, the calves.  We talked and soaked in the quiet.

"Let's go out to the garden."

Oh boy.  Dreamland called, but I knew how much effort the Professor had put in to drive all that way and pick me up, so I trudged behind him to my parents' garden, poked around the carrots, commented on the strawberries taking over the place.

At one point I stumbled and started giggling, commented that I had gone over the edge of tired to giddy.

"Well, I hope you won't be too tired to remember this," he said as he reached for my hand and drew me to him.  The Professor pulled out a tiny box and opened it, revealing just the ring I had shown him: a small, square-cut diamond set in a simple white-gold band.  It glimmered under the yard light; so did his smile.

He cocked his head to the side.  "What are you doing for the next fifty, sixty, eighty years?" he asked.

All traces of exhaustion melted away.  I dropped the Dr. Pepper bottle, and he dropped to one knee with those words every girl fantasizes about hearing.

"Will you marry me?"

I had given so little thought to the moment; I'm far too practical and spent most of my daydreaming time on budgets and goals for our early life together.

But as the Professor twirled me around the garden, the yard light above us buzzing, the dog barking to herald the news, the ring warming on my finger--it was far more perfect than I could have planned.

Love Story (5): Enter Jesus

{Just joining us?  You can find Part 1 here}

There may have only been nine miles between our campuses, but in a sense they were worlds apart: the Professor attended a small Christian school, while I was at a giant state school, even taking a class on evolution (a detail that somehow escaped me until the class began).

We had talked about religion and faith here and there over the summer without really getting anywhere.  I believed in God and knew Jesus had died on the cross.  I was good about going to church and tried to read the Bible regularly and to do good works.  I didn't think anything else really needed to be said about the subject.

Ironically, it was some boys from my church who got on the Professor's case about the differences in our beliefs, and so, on a weekend home visit, the Professor said those dreaded words that no one in a relationship wants to hear: "We need to talk."

We were at my parents' farm.  It was about 11pm.  He could easily give me the break-up speech and be back home in his bed by midnight.  I waited for a cheesy opening line: "It's not you, it's me"; "I just need some space"; "We're different people now" or some such like.

Instead, he started talking about Jesus.  He talked about grace, a word I knew mostly from that famous hymn, and how my good works would never be enough to cover up or outweigh my sins.

I didn't fully understand it then, but I did feel a weight lift from my shoulders.  I had always wondered just what it took to get to Heaven, but nobody could give me a clear answer.  So, I had spent a lot of time in clubs, activities, service opportunities, largely because I wanted those things, but also always in the back of my mind hoping that they would make me "good enough."

But even though I was outwardly praised and rewarded, I knew that my heart held some pretty wicked things: gossip, lies, judgment, even lust.  I often wondered (and worried) just what the ratio of good works would have to be to outweigh the wrongs I did and thought.

We walked outside and searched the Professor's car for a Bible.  He led me down the Romans Road, showing me Scripture that explained that I was a sinner (agreed), that Jesus died on the cross (agreed) in my place to pay for my sins because I could not pay such a high price (new to me), and that He offered salvation as a free gift (new to me).  I need only call on His name and believe (totally new to me).

The Professor led me in prayer, and while I still didn't entirely grasp what had happened, I knew that everything was changed.  That I was changed and changed forever.

I have a greater understanding of my salvation these days, though truly it is still a marvelous mystery that the Lord would save a wretch like me.  And that he used the Professor to speak that truth to me?  Makes it all the sweeter.

Love Story (4): School Starts

{Just joining us?  You can find Part 1 here}

He was in St. Paul.  I was in Minneapolis.  Nine miles separated our dorms; no one would call such an arrangement a long-distance relationship...but somedays it felt like it.

The Professor had a bike, and I had a bus pass.  Neither of us had a car.  To visit him, I took the campus bus to St. Paul, hopped a city bus to apartments near his school, then hiked into campus.  When he visited me, he biked four miles and took the campus bus to my side of the river and hiked to my dorm.

We got caught in a storm once when we had decided to meet in the middle: the Professor was biking home in a scene of Indiana Jones meets Twister, with straight-line winds rushing toward him as he peddled madly toward his dorm and safety (the textbooks he had in his backpack were never the same).  The campus bus I was on had to stop and wait half an hour because the driver couldn't see through the rain.

Needless to say, we didn't see each other more than once or twice a week--a devastating blow after falling into a summer habit of near-nightly trips to the grocery store for snacks and movies and long chats into the wee hours.

We spent a lot of time on the phone--hours and hours as we put off homework and talked about our days.  Sometimes I longed to get off the phone and join my friends as they "studied" loudly in the lounge or watched American Idol or played pranks.  I got in on plenty of those things, but sometimes I wanted to do more.

But something held me back.  I knew that I was doing those fun college-y things, even if it wasn't every night.  And I also knew that, while those things were fun and memorable, they weren't as great as I made them out to be in my head.

And I knew that the Professor was my best friend.  And he needed a friend to talk to, to rely on, to listen to him.

The Professor is a homebody by nature; he had never traveled much and was used to spending most of his time with his family or me or a small group of friends.  Dorm life was new, school was intimidating, and friend-making didn't come easily that first semester.*  Most high school relationships would have faltered under the strain of one homesick person and one embracing college life, but I knew that we were different.

Our "dates" weren't filled with trips to Applebee's or dance parties or putting snowmen on other floors of the dorm building, but they were filled with genuine heart-to-hearts, encouragement, exploration of our new surroundings, and a deep companionship that neither of us had ever felt.

And I wouldn't have traded it for any amount of typical college fun.

*Don't worry about the Professor; slow and steady wins the race.  As time went by, he made good friends and fully loved college life...which is funny, since I started out in love with my school experience but eventually grew tired of it--and that's when the Professor was there for me like I got to be there for him.  But that's a different story for another day.

Love Story (3): Summer

{Just joining us?  You can find Part 1 here}

Professor and I didn't see much of each other between prom and the end of the school year.  We only shared one class, speech was over, and everything about the end of senior year is crazily hectic.

But there was one afternoon that our paths crossed.

A friend and I were waiting until the parking lot traffic thinned before going to our cars.  She was talking to some friends when I saw Professor in his track uniform heading toward the drinking fountain down the hall.  I had to walk that way anyway, so maybe I could hope for a close encounter.

(I have since learned he was thinking the same.)

We fell into step halfway down the hall, went through the usual how-are-you's.  Then he asked, "Do you want to get together again sometime?"  I knew Professor to be shy, reserved, quiet...but here he'd asked me out, his voice confident and calm, with people milling around, listening and everything.

I said I would then rushed toward my car while he rushed off to practice.

Graduation came and went.  We attended each other's parties; I made him promise to call me as he left mine.  And he did.

The summer passed with dates for ice cream or bowling or just grabbing snacks at the convenience store, watching a movie, and filling the rest of the night with talk.  Oh, did we talk.  On those summer nights, we solved all the world's problems and shared our deepest secrets.

One night, I could tell something was up.  We sat on the picnic table in my parents' backyard, and I told him to spit it out.

He was flustered, shy like he was asking me to prom all over again.

"Do you think," he asked quietly.  "You would ever marry me someday?"

"Yes."  The word came without thought or realization.  But something inside me unclenched and I knew it was true.

"Really?" he asked, somewhat stunned but pleased.

I reached for his hand and nodded.

Why did he ask so soon?  Because Professor isn't the type to kiss a girl or tell her he loves her unless he knows it's for life.

And both those things happened on that starry night.  And the stars seemed to align in our favor: we were headed to different colleges, but they were both in the Twin Cities.

The only question that remained?  How would we make it work across two cities, on campuses that were separated by an ideological ocean, with no cars and no idea how to get to one another?

Love Story (2): La Noche Festiva

{Just joining us?  You can find Part 1 here}

Needless to say, my feelings toward prom were drastically improved.  My mom and I shopped like crazy to find the perfect dress (and paid way more than we should have).  My friends and I chose a restaurant.  Professor and I went for a get-to-know-you-so-prom-isn't-awkward outing and then ordered our corsage and boutonniere at the local flower shop.

When the day finally arrived, Professor pulled up to my house in a car he borrowed from his grandpa (a vast improvement over the white van he usually drove).  I peeked at him through the curtains: handsome in his tux, his hair neat, corsage in hand.  I was all butterflies when he knocked at the door.

My mom answered and called for me.  Professor stared but said nothing; later I found out he had lost his breath and was gripping the door knob behind him.  We posed for pictures for my mom then hopped in the car for pictures with at least four different groups of friends, which was all a blur.

The only things I remember leading up to the dance?  Professor having to fight my dress into the car so he could get the door shut, smiling like a crazy woman at every mother and HER mother's camera, being too excited to eat at dinner (unheard of for me), and Professor letting me know that he'd cover my hair with his jacket if it had started to rain when we headed to the car.

A true gentleman.

{I feel dated scanning a photo!  But there you have it...none of the pictures I have
is great, but I always smile when I see this one: my mom kept directing us to move
this way or that to make up for the height difference, but we were both so shy and
nervous, we ended up backing all that way up the stairs!}

The dance was fun: we usually were within sight of each other, though during fast songs we often ended up socializing and moving among various circles of people.  But slow songs?  That boy found me like a magnet finds...another magnet.

Now, Professor is 6'3"; he's got a foot on me.  I couldn't keep looking up at him while we danced or I'd have become dizzy...so at one point I leaned my head on his chest.  And, sappy as it sounds, it was like finding the jelly to my peanut butter; we just fit together perfectly.

I asked if he wanted to duck out before the last song to beat traffic out of the parking lot (oh yes, my dad taught me well).  He glanced at me, heard a slow song start and pulled me back toward the dance floor.

Post-prom was like the dance: usually in sight of one another, sometimes within talking range and sometimes not.  Around 5AM they were ready to wrap up and hand out door prizes.  I was so tired, I let myself rest my head on Professor's shoulder...he didn't seem to mind.

Poor Professor was so tired on the drive back to my house, I asked him 1,453 questions to keep him awake.  Even exhausted I loved hearing his answers.  Little did I know it was only the beginning of hours and hours of discussion that lay ahead of us.

Love Story: Prom?

Note: this is the first in a series about how my dear Professor and I fell in love.  Everybody likes a good love story, right?

Senior year of high school, I was pretty sour on the idea of prom.  Junior Prom had been fun, but it was kind of awkward: my group of "going stag" friends all got dates at the last minute.

Which left me sitting in the bleachers for Grand March.  By myself.

Other than that, it was a great night: we went to dinner as a big group, danced the night away, and then went to a school-sponsored post-Prom party (complete with games, snacks, racketball, sumo suits, you name it) that lasted until morning.

But nobody had asked me to go with them, and I went through typical, teenage, nobody-will-ever-love-me angst over it.  And when prom came around senior year?  I wanted nothing to do with it.

I also launched into long, unending rants about how I wanted nothing to do with boys, would never get married, and planned a dream journalism career for myself in which I was too busy for romance anyway.  (How my friends put up with me during that time, I still don't know.)

My best friend happened to be discussing prom with a fellow classmate who mentioned he wasn't likely going since he didn't have a date.  She saw her chance.  "You know, Michelle doesn't have a date, maybe you should ask her."

This boy and I didn't know each other well, but in a class of just 150, you know everybody to some degree.  We were both on speech team and had friends in common--who were more than willing to let me know he was going to ask.

So when my morning plans fell through one day and I ended up sitting in front of my locker at 7:15, I knew exactly why the lanky kid from five lockers over sat down beside me.

We exchanged good mornings, but then, feeling shy about the whole thing, I turned my attention back to my homework.  American Government, maybe?  Even at the time I couldn't make any sense of it.

"Hey, I was wondering..." he started, sounding nervous.  "You're probably already going with somebody, but I was wondering if you would maybe want to think about maybe going with me to Prom."*

"No," I said.  His face fell, crushed, before I could say another word.

"No," I repeated, then sped up. "I'm not going with anybody.  I'd love to go with you."

And oh that little grin on his face.  "Well, great," he said.  "Now I'm just going to go...jump for joy."

He really did jump up from the hallway floor then sprinted down the hall and around the corner toward the calc classroom we'd both sit in once the bell rang.

I'm not sure his feet really hit the floor as he went, and I doubt either one of us learned much in calculus that day.

*Did you notice all those maybes and hedge words?  Professor still does this and it makes me smile.

{Linked up to the Perspective on Life and Love Carnival at ModernMrsDarcy.com}