The Look

During Jr. High and High school, my alarm clock would go off every morning at 4:45 a.m. My sisters and I played sports throughout the year, so in order to fit in piano practice, which would have been impossible after school, we would pile into the car at 5:30 a.m. and make our way to the church where my father was pastor. Each of us took a piano around the building, we would practice for an hour, and then head off to school.

There were a few constants on these horrifically early mornings: First, my alarm always went off, and I would always stay in bed. The alarm was really useless, considering it was my father who did the actual waking up. Second, my father made my bed. Yes, this was a constant. I didn’t make a bed until my first day of college. At least I did it then.

Third, I made myself a nutritionally, satisfying breakfast each morning which included two strawberry pop tarts. If we were out of pop tarts, which was rare, dad would grab at the opportunity to give us his own version of a nutritionally, satisfying breakfast. He’d bring us Dunkin’ Donuts.

Indeed, for six years, none of these morning rituals changed. But there was one more practice that occurred each morning during our early morning drive to the church. Dad would always turn down the radio, tuned into KMOX, and begin praying. It was never a rote prayer, but there was one part of his prayer that was the same each and every morning. Dad would pray for our future spouses.

Now that I have three children of my own, I have a new understanding for why Dad prayed for these unknown men so consistently. And I have become oddly suspicious, due to my own parental perspective, as to whether those prayers were intended not only for his daughters, but for the well being of the men who would spend the rest of their lives us.

My oldest daughter is now eight. It was exactly at her age when I developed my first crush. Like some kids, I got so nervous around this young man that instead of talking to him, I just ignored him. About half way through the school year, however, my teacher switched our desks around and low and behold….prince charming was placed in the desk right in front of me.

I knew this would be my best chance at actually talking to him. But, for the first week of our new seating arrangement, he was gone on vacation. I lamented the whole week, but I also came up with a plan. My plan was bold and well thought out. My plan was to speak to my crush.

The day he returned I tried on several occasions to make my first move, but, of course, the teacher kept getting in the way. Since I had a “negative” on my report card when it came to paying attention in class, I knew I had little chance of slipping in a quick conversation without getting chastised. So, I patiently waited until the appropriate time. Just before the teacher rang the lunch bell, I began feeling the butterflies. I knew this was it. My time had come.

When the bell finally rang, I tapped the boy on his shoulder. He turned around and looked at me with zero anticipation. And then I finally spoke to him. “So, you went on vacation with your family?”

“Yep,” still his lunch was clearly more appealing than me.

“Um, you’re really tan.”

“Thanks.”

“So, was it sunny?” The thing is, I knew as soon as the sentence came out that I had put the nail in my coffin. His groupies, however, just confirmed the end of my prince charming pursuit with their jokes: “No, it was totally rainy and snowy and that’s how he got so tan.” And here lies another constant: Where there are boys, there is immaturity.

Granted, I threw the pitch and deserved what came to me, but I never planned out another conversation with a boy – ever again.

My sisters and I didn’t date a lot. In fact, I was told by a fellow classmate that we probably would never get asked on a date because our father was a pastor. I didn’t understand this until the first time I brought a boy to the house.

My father’s interest was not in how polite they were or in how sweet they appeared to be. No, my Dad’s first interest was, of course, whether or not they were a christian. But it did not end there. The second point of interest was whether or not they knew the five points of Calvinism. And last, but certainly not least, he was over ambitious about finding out their Eschatological view. If a boy didn’t know what that meant, my dad would suggest that we talk about it in the car. It was always my job to convert them to historical Pre-Millennialism.

And I wonder why we didn’t date a lot.

But for many reasons, it mattered to me what my parents thought about potential relationships. On one occasion, I stood at the front door saying good-bye to a date that I knew my parents didn’t like so much. So when he leaned in for what would have been my first kiss, I panicked. He kept leaning forward, eyes shut, and I did the only thing I could think of. I ducked.

Yes, I ducked. And yes, it was awkward, and we spoke very little after the front door experience. I suppose there just wasn’t much to say.

In fact, the few dates I brought home never really got much interest from my parents. I think, whether I would admit it or not, I was always waiting for that certain smile from my dad. That look that said, “Yep, Katie, this is the one.”

When I was twenty, I finally got the “look.” And it was the only time it mattered. With Chris, I got that certain smile from my father that I had been waiting for. So after twenty years, many awkward moments, and a lot of questioning and wondering, our prayers were answered, and in such a beautiful way.

Last Friday I visited Ella at school for her birthday. When lunch was over, I bent down to kiss her good-bye and noticed that she crying quite freely. This was unusual for her, so I took a moment to talk through why she was so upset. She explained that she didn’t want me to leave; she wanted to go home with me.

I hugged her and sent her back to the line. This is about as sympathetic as I get when there’s only two hours of school left. I was pretty sure the tears were because of a spelling test that afternoon and not so much about the need for her mother’s embrace.

I watched as Ella walked in line with every girl in her class surrounding her, hugging her, and rubbing her back. I laughed at the predictable scene. And here lies another constant: where there are girls, there will be drama.

It was then that I felt a little tap on my back. I turned and there stood a fellow classmate of Ella’s – a cute red- headed boy. He spoke to me with total and complete confidence:

“Are you Ella’s mom?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I just want to let you know that she’ll be just fine. This kind of thing happens all the time. In fact, I’ve experience this type of situation from time to time.”

His words were so misplaced. I felt like they should have been coming from a teacher, so, for a second, I had to hold in a laugh. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem. Yeah, it’s definitely happened to me before. I cried and I cried. But you know, Mrs. Polski, you just have to trust Jesus. And you have to believe that in the end, Ella is going to be just fine.”

He looked away from me for a second but then kept going, which I was actually hoping for. It was a perfect counseling moment…and I embraced every one of his eight year old words.

“OK, so we’ve just finished lunch now. I’d say by the end of recess she’ll be over it. She won’t even remember that you’re gone. Don’t worry. Really, you can go ahead. I’ll keep my eye on her.”

Ella’s not into boys yet, but if this conversation occurred with red-head ten or fifteen years from now? Well, I just may have given Ella the “Look.” Until then, I will constantly be praying.