She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not
Growth Spurts at Wayfarers Chapel in Rancho Palos Verdes, California
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My first crush was Tricia Redman. She was The One in 1st grade: Smurf blue eyes, blonde feathery 70’s hair, and still had all her baby teeth intact. She was super cute with a smile that could Lite-Brite my world and mush my heart into Play-Doh. I loved her, cooties and all. I also loved my Sit ‘n Spin back then, so that tells you where my emotional maturity was at that stage of my life.
Between daydreams of becoming the fifth Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and my dad buying me a new Tonka truck, I prayed to God in his infinite pre-eHarmony matchmaking wisdom, that He’d set us up and we’d be married in a really fancy church.
I figured my chances had improved that school year when mom bought me Mr. Sketch flavor-scented markers. As long as I played my markers right, with one whiff of my blueberry marker, she’d be impressed and it’d only be a matter of time before we’d be sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage — which would be four babies — all boys, to which I’d name them after the Ghostbusters. But Tricia Redman didn’t fall head-over-heels at the lingering scent of my markers, Egon Spengler never became the name of my third offspring (yet), and my dream of childhood sweetheart matrimony blew up bigger than the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man starring in a Michael Bay movie.
Now before I go any further, as a sidebar to the men reading this — when you’re courting a woman, the man’s job is to make the love story unfold. It’s the experience of the courtship that turns-on the emotions of a woman. Not scented markers (surprising, I know). Part of the experience is the anticipation, the wonderment, the curiosity of what’s going to happen next. It’s all about having a positive effect on a lady’s level of attraction so they feel swept off their feet, figuratively — or in the case of Tarzan with Jane, literally. Having six-pack abs like Tarzen also helps.
But when I was a wimpy 7-year-old with no game and would wipe my boogers underneath the table, I did not know this. Or have the abs. Or know how to tie my shoes. Or know what 8 + 5 was. Or just find a Kleenex for the boogers. But one thing I did have going for me was the ability to be bookish shy.
One night, school was sponsoring a rollerskating night at the local roller rink. ‘Finally!’ I thought. Since I didn’t want to man-up and do it myself, what better way for God to act as my wingman, or wingGod (?), and divinely orchestrate a situation for Tricia Redman to talk to me. The View-Master of my imagination pictured that the best way this could go down was if she wiped out — but before falling on her keyster, God would swoop me in like a Knight in Shining He-Man Underwear, rescuing her from the perils of a bruised butt. My fantasy dreamed that she would turn around and be eternally grateful, then go up to the roller rink DJ, and for a small fee, she would gift me the ultimate token of 1st grade adoration:
The paper tissue flower.
Ah yes. With its green chenille stem hooked to a wrinkled up piece of pink tissue paper, nothing symbolized eternal love better for hopeless romantics who hadn’t hit puberty. The boys were supposed to give the fake flowers to the girls, but for the popular boys, it was the girls who would give the flowers to the boys. Instead of risking embarrassment to the public perception of classmates thinking I had the hots for a girl, God could work His magic where the DJ would announce. “I have a flower to give away… To: Dave , From: Tricia Redman” and then the entire school would go “oooOOOooh”.
But as the night progressed, Tricia Redman hadn’t arrived on time. My brain started plucking at the petals in my head, ‘she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not.’ I tried to distract myself by skating to the hip-hop beats of MC Hammer and Kris Kross, falling down more times than I could count (which was true, since it was more than 8 + 5). I would keep peaking at the entrance door throughout the night, waiting for the moment she’d skate in so she could wipe out and I could catch her in the nick of time. So I kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting. After an hour and a half, the feeling began to set in that she wasn’t coming — probably because she couldn’t afford it. After all, the Tooth Fairy never had a reason to give her money since she hadn’t lost her baby teeth. I hadn’t thought of that until now…
So the night ended without anything of significance happening. Weeks later, news broke that Tricia Redman was moving. I was heartbroken for the first time in my life, wallowing in my Frosted Flakes about the unfairness of life. I didn’t take a risk and never saw her again.
I never did get that flower.
October 4, 2015 10:00am Worship Service: Wayfarers Chapel in Rancho Palos Verdes, California
I was doing a lot of thinking when I arrived at Wayfarers Chapel. Tricia Redman never worked out, but now 25 years later I had a new crush — three in fact, and as I stood outside of the world’s most romantic destination for a wedding, I couldn’t help but think what could be unfolding in the next chapter of my life.
Rachel was a nurse, but even she couldn’t cure me from the withdrawals I was experiencing from missing her and the kids. Before leaving for the final stretch of 52 Churches, several of her friends and family were dropping hints that we were ‘relationship official’ in their eyes. Her friends were convincing me to move closer, her mom was introducing us to friends as a couple, and then there was the lifetime family friend who took me aside one day and said, “I’ve seen this family for a long time, and you’re exactly what they’ve been needing.”
But it was the kids, Tony and Elle, who really wanted me as a permanent fixture in their lives. A few days before arriving Wayfarers Chapel, Rachel texted a picture of Tony’s 7-year-old birthday celebration, all three of them waving to me during the special occasion. Despite being located at one the world’s most awe-inspiring churches, it was that picture that had captured my attention. I was reminded by what Tony said before I left. He was being tucked in by Rachel, his head ready to hit his Spider-Man pillow. He wasn’t thinking about girl crushes, toys, or Ninja Turtles. Instead, he let me know exactly what he’d be wishing for his birthday:
“Dave, one day you’re gonna marry mom and you’ll be my dad!”
When a child says something like that to you, it causes a shift in your universe. You remember what it’s like to dream again, especially when it’s YOU that can be the dream for someone else. When I got back home, I knew what I had to do in order to take the next step.
When the service began, Wayfarers Chapel’s minister had quite the unique wardrobe. Gone was the traditional all-black preacher’s garb, and instead he was fashioning a fun fuchsia clerical shirt complete with tab-collar. His neck was scarfed by a tye-dye stole that contained so many colors, it could have caused Joseph’s brothers to go colorblind. With “Our Father Who Art in Heaven” carved into the stone altar behind him, it was a unique feeling to be inside a glass church beneath Godly-like redwood trees, soaring sea gulls, and a quick glimpse to your right was a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean. You look out and you KNOW that you’re exactly where you always wanted to be. There’s a beautiful power — a sacred purpose, when the environment you’re around is emphasized by organic growth that uses God’s creation as the framework.
The liturgy was associated with the Swedenborgian Church, with Wayfarers Chapel serving as a national memorial to its founder, Emanuel Swedenborg. The chapel was built by Lloyd Wright, son of the famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright (who had constructed some of the other 52 Churches I had visited), who aimed to emphasize harmony between God’s natural world and the inner world of mind and spirit. This was apparent throughout the service. At one point, the minister gave a minute for the congregation to be still, allowing a chance to reconnect with nature, as he put it, by “listening to the small voice that speaks to each of us from the wilderness.” In the background, a quiet trickling fountain located near the altar was the only sound to be heard, creating a tingling sense of relaxation that shivered down the spine. The musical selections were also quite calming, featuring an ensemble that incorporated a West Coast cool jazz vibe with relaxed tempos and light melodic tones.
After a recital of the Lord’s Prayer, the minister wanted to shine a light on the balance between our physical and spiritual nature for the sermon. He quoted from Matthew, “The eye is the lamp of the body. If your vision is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your vision is poor, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness.” As he explained, our entire way of proceeding in the world comes through our eyes, its what informs us of our perspective of the world. The minister found ophthalmology, the study of the eye, to be quite mystical in shining a light on what’s behind-the-scenes spiritually.
“If the eye is the lamp of your body, the eyes are windows to the soul.”
After service, my eyes were overlooking the living waters of an endless ocean and infinite sky. I looked around and was surrounded by the chapel’s gardens, featuring numerous plants and flowers (many of which were mentioned in the Bible). As I looked at the botanical growth around me, I couldn’t believe the spiritual growth spurts that had occurred within myself over the past year. That’s the mysterious thing about growth. You can never actually see it happening. Growth is invisible and can only be measured over a period of time. Like a flower, you feed it living water and a shining light to make it grow. The change happens so gradually — so slow that it feels like a bunch of caterpillars racing in the Indianapolis 500 and they all take a pit stop. But after some time and a whole lot of patience, you sprout out of the dirt and bloom as something new, reaching heights that you never could have dreamed of when previously, you were buried in darkness as a seed yearning to see light.
That’s what the Christian change felt like to me that day. I felt wiser. Stronger. Smarter, fully aware that 8 + 5 = 13. Through this continuing spiritual experience — deepening and personal, it had given me a chance to see a whole new world in front of me. I wasn’t restricted to my 6-foot, 180-pound physical stature. Instead, I realized the true essence of who I am can’t be touched, smelled, or measured. There’s an infinite length on who I can become, and like my Savior who died physically but who’s spiritual transcendence lives on, we all can positively impact the lives of those we come across. Like a child picking dandelions and giving them away with a generous and considerate heart, Christ saw Himself as love and put it out into the world, giving it away freely.
“DAAAAAAAVE!”, Tony yelled when I parked in to the apartment complex Rachel was living at. He stopped what he was doing and jumped out of the grass, sprinting towards me for a hug. Not far behind him was Elle, excitedly rushing towards me with her miniature legs and a fistful of dandelions in one hand. When I put Tony down, I pulled Elle in next, holding her and asking how she had been.
“Here you go”, she said with a proud smile and outstretched arm. I took one of the oversized hanging limp flowers from her hand and realized something.
I finally got my flower.
While walking towards the apartment to see Rachel, Elle turned around, looking up at me like she had just watched one too many episodes of the Olsen Twins on Full House.
“Dude,” she paused with a puzzled look in her eyes. “You’re supposed to give that mom.”
