I just got a Christmas card from Priscilla. It’s one she picked out for me herself, and it came today.
As a pastor’s wife and a campus staff worker, she would often find out spontaneously about somebody’s birthday, anniversary, engagement, graduation, etc. So that she could wish people well under those circumstances, she always maintained a supply of greeting cards. She picked them up whenever possible from a variety of sources—store closeouts, etc.—and kept them for when they were needed.
I went through her supplies this morning looking for Christmas cards. I discovered one that said, “For my husband.” There’s only one person Priscilla would have gotten that card for! She must have been planning to give it to me but never got the chance because her illness intervened.
Well, actually she did get the chance, because now I have it. It’s already making the first Christmas season without her a lot brighter.
At the beginning of this month, I pulled out the giant plastic bin of Christmas decorations that Priscilla had carefully maintained. When I opened the lid, one of the first things I found was the beautiful pair of Christmas stockings she’d made for us from the same fabric she’d used for the curtains and pillows in the living room. This posed a bit of a dilemma.
Should I just put up one stocking this year? Awkward.
No stockings? That didn’t feel like the holiday spirit.
So I decided to put both of them up and try to think of some appropriate “stocking-stuffer” for hers. It didn’t take me long to realize that I could do something in her memory and honor for those whom Jesus had called “the least of these.”
I hadn’t gotten much farther than that in my planning before I went to church this morning. I discovered an “angel tree” set up in our fellowship area. A refugee family had just moved in nearby and had approached the congregation for assistance. They hadn’t been able to bring much with them, and since they’d come from a country with a warm climate, they hadn’t had any winter clothes in the first place. Now the Michigan winter was approaching. Would we help?
On the tree were paper ornaments representing specific needs of the children, whose first names and ages were given. I saw that the two girls, aged 12 and 14, each needed winter boots. That made me think right away of a story Priscilla often told about Christmas.
One year, when she was a young teenager herself, she’d needed new boots for the Quebec winter. She had her heart set on a pair that was sturdy, warm, and stylish. But her parents told her regretfully that there simply wasn’t enough money for them. She’d have to pick a cheaper pair (one that would presumably be somewhat inferior in those three regards).
On Christmas morning, there was a present under the tree for her that was the shape and size of a boot box. When she opened it, inside was the very pair she’d wanted! A relative had heard about the situation and provided the extra that was needed. She often cited this story as an early experience she’d had of God’s love and care.
In this light of this story, I couldn’t think of a more appropriate stocking-stuffer for Priscilla than to buy boots for some girls who were about the same age she’d been and who were in need. So I took those two ornaments and after church I went shopping. At one store I found just what I was looking for, pairs that met the feature “trifecta” of warm, sturdy, and stylish. The two different sizes I needed were available.
Then I saw a sign indicating that I’d caught the final day of a three-day sale: 20% off all clothing purchases. And when I checked out, the register issued a special coupon: $5 off any gift card purchase of at least $50. I figured this was probably designed to encourage customers to buy gift cards as presents for others. But why not buy one with the discount and use it personally on my next visit? “Hey, if I saw a five-dollar bill on the ground, I’d sure pick it up,” I told myself. So this was effectively a further reduction in the price. God had provided just the right opportunity for me to honor Priscilla in a meaningful way. But, I wondered, had He also liked the idea so much that He’d decided to go in on the present with me?
When I bring the boots to the church so they can be delivered to the family, I have to return the paper ornaments for tracking purposes. But I’ve made photocopies and tucked them into Priscilla’s stocking.
The lawn needed to be mowed. But a thick layer of leaves had fallen onto it. There’s no problem with mowing a few leaves into the lawn. They actually make great mulch. But there were so many of these that they would have choked the grass. I needed to rake them up.
This was a task that Priscilla and I used to polish off together in a couple of hours on a crisp fall afternoon, raking the leaves into piles all over the yard and then dragging them on a tarp to our compost heap. But I soon discovered, when I tackled the job yesterday, that doing it by myself was a lot harder, and took a lot longer.
For one thing, when two people are working together, it’s more efficient. For example, one person can be bringing the tarp over while the other is putting the finishing touches on a pile.
It’s also more fun. When Priscilla and I would rake the yard, sooner or later a “leaf fight” would break out, along the lines of a “splash fight” in a swimming pool, and a pile would then have to be raked back together as we both pulled leaves out of our hair and clothes. We’d have hot chocolate together when we went inside.
But two people also each contribute their own energy. If you’d run out of energy just as you were completing a job with somebody else, that means you’d run out of energy halfway through (or perhaps even less, because you wouldn’t have those efficiencies) if you were doing it by yourself.
After raking leaves for three hours, I was exhausted, and I’d only done half the yard. While I’m making good progress recovering my strength and energy, I still need to be very careful. So I quit for the day, resolving to finish today, if energy permitted.
Kind friends have offered to help me with my yard work, and I may well take them up on it when the rest of the leaves fall. (These ones were just the “early birds.”) But this time around, something very interesting happened.
I realized that I could use the leaf blower, which I customarily pull out only to clean off the driveway and walkways after mowing, for its intended purpose. When raking, the idea is to make piles all over the yard and come get them with a tarp to avoid moving ever-growing (and ever-heavier) quantities of leaves unnecessary distances. “Don’t bring the leaves to the tarp, bring the tarp to the leaves.”
But with a blower, since you’re going to have to “sweep” the whole yard with it anyway, and it’s no more effort for you whether you kick up a few leaves or many, there’s nothing wrong with moving ever-growing piles of them to one end of the yard. So just before I called it quits yesterday, I did a little experiment. I tried to see if I’d be able to blow all the leaves on the remaining half of the yard down to the end closest to our compost heap. It would be easy to load them all onto a tarp for a short drag from there. It seemed as if this would work fine, so that was my plan for today.
The problem was, when I tried to carry out this plan, I found that I was facing a stiff breeze. (Yesterday was calm.) When I kicked up the leaves with the blower, a few of them would move a couple of inches forward. But a greater number would lift into the air and come back towards me, in many cases landing farther from the compost than they’d been to start with.
“This is horrible!” I said to myself. “I’ll be fighting that breeze the whole way. It’s going to take for-e-ver.”
Then it dawned on me. I could blow the leaves away from the compost heap into one big pile at the far end of the yard. I could still pick them all up in the tarp and drag them from there to the heap. This would be a somewhat longer distance, but it would represent only a trivial increase in my overall workload.
I tried out my idea. The blower kicked the leaves up into the air and the breeze carried them away down the yard. I finished this second half in about thirty minutes. I said to myself, “I can’t believe how fast that went!” It really was as if someone else was working with me and helping me. I had plenty of energy to mow the lawn right afterwards.
The lawn now looks immaculate. And I’m sipping hot chocolate as I write.
Back in July, when I published the post entitled Gardening Therapy, I promised that at the end of the growing season I’d present a slide show of all the flowers that came up in Priscilla’s gardens. Now that the last ones have arrived, here they all are together, over 50 varieties! (Ten of them are still blooming at this point in October.) I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.
WordPress doesn’t currently host audio in slide shows, so please play this audio track for the musical accompaniment. (It’s J.S. Bach, Aria in G Major from Suite No. 3, “Air on a G String,” performed by the Amelia Island Cello Ensemble at the 2007 Amelia Island Chamber Music Festival)
(If you receive these posts by email, you may need to go online using the link in blue at the top of the page in order to see the whole slideshow.)
Those who’ve followed my story to this point will recognize that Priscilla and I had some unfinished business with some people. I’d left things open with my other graduation guest, and the young man Priscilla had met at her cousin’s wedding was still supposed to come see her in Quebec.
So I wrote to Anne. (You know, that awkward moment when you need to tell the girl you were dating that in the few weeks since you last saw her, you got engaged to someone else.)
My letter to her crossed in the mail with a letter from her to me, reporting that she’d just gotten engaged. She, too, had spent the summer serving in another country, where there was a different language and culture, and there she and another young man had received guidance as remarkable as my own that God was calling them into a lifetime partnership.
Anne actually hadn’t been that surprised to receive my letter. She later told me that the moment she first laid eyes on Priscilla, she said to herself, “This is the person Chris is supposed to marry. Let’s see how long it takes him to figure that out.”
For her part, Priscilla wrote to the guy she’d met at the wedding and explained the recent whirlwind of events. Understandably he had questions, but the two of them worked things out in a phone conversation, and at the end he very chivalrously wished us every happiness.
This would be the place to mention that Priscilla had actually gotten engaged once before, a few years earlier, to someone from her church. But her parents had not felt he was right for her, and her friends were similarly concerned. The two of them had real difficulty communicating and making decisions together. She eventually realized that she’d made a mistake in agreeing to marry him. She went to a woman who was a trusted advisor, one of those friends-of-parents that children call “aunt” or “uncle.”
“What should I ever do?” she asked. “You can just give him back the ring,” the woman explained, “and tell him that you’re very sorry, but you no longer feel it would be the right thing to do to marry him.” So that’s what she did. This man later found a very compatible wife, and after Priscilla and I were married, the two of them even had us over for a no-hard-feelings dinner. As I think back over these stories, I’m amazed by, and very grateful for, all these people who approached delicate matters of the heart with such generosity and grace.
Priscilla’s family moved her down to the North Shore of Boston, where she’d accepted a secretarial job at Gordon College. This was only a short distance from Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, where I was scheduled to start in the fall. Her family took a vacation by the ocean and then they all came to visit my family. There was feasting and celebrating, but I could only take part in a limited way, because I’d broken my jaw and it had to be wired shut for five weeks. Ultimately this led me to postpone seminary first for a semester, then for a full year, as we arranged for our wedding to take place a few months before I started seminary.
In the end, I would get married when I was still only 22 years old. But in retrospect, I’m very grateful for the circumstances—Priscilla’s move, and even my broken jaw—that combined to bring this about. They ensured that she and I would have many wonderful years together as husband and wife, more than I had anticipated, before she went home to be with the Lord.
I got temporary office work in Boston. I also found housing a few blocks north of Harvard Square in exchange for working as a tutor and governor for the son of a German countess. She was dividing her time between America and Europe and didn’t want to take her son with her when she traveled because she didn’t want him to miss school.
On weekends I’d take the train an hour north to see Priscilla, or she’d take it down to visit me. A great group for young couples had formed in the church I’d attended as a student—some couples newly married, some engaged like us, others dating—and together we worked through many of the issues that came with this stage in life.
As we sent out our wedding invitations, I told God that I wanted to invite Him to the wedding, too. I explained that I couldn’t get an actual invitation to Him in the mail, but promised that we’d save Him “the best seat in the house”: bride’s side, front row, on the center aisle. We would instruct our ushers not to let anybody sit there; that seat would be reserved for God.
I felt as if God responded that He’d be delighted to attend, and that he was going to send us a wedding present in advance. A couple of days later, one of Priscilla’s co-workers said to her, “I hear the two of you are looking for furniture for your future apartment. A friend of mine has a queen size bed that he wants to give away.” We gratefully accepted it.
Priscilla and I were married in a bilingual ceremony on May 23, 1981, at her family’s home church in Sherbrooke. My father and her pastor performed the ceremony. Her sister and mine were bridesmaids. One of my brothers was our reader and the other two were groomsmen, along with the friend I’d driven home just before my two-car accident.
While it’s customary for the best man and maid of honor to serve as the witnesses to a marriage, Priscilla and I asked our fathers to be our witnesses. Since they’d thought of each of us as a good match for their child the first time they met us, this seemed only appropriate.
And our ring bearer was the toddler son of Priscilla’s brother and his wife, who was the same young woman who’d sat with us on the hillside that evening years before as we watched the moon rise.
In the end, Priscilla didn’t have to wait long. We started making plans for her to live and work in the Boston area so she could be near me while I was in seminary. I quickly realized that I wanted her to have the security of my promise to marry her if she were going to move to a different country for my sake, and not just have her come as my girlfriend.
So even though it was different from what I’d expected to do, we began to pursue an engagement right away, with a view towards getting married while I was in seminary. We felt strongly that we should have the blessing of both sets of our parents. I’d talk to my parents first when I got home, and if they approved, I’d ask Priscilla’s parents for their blessing.
In the meantime we had someone else we could consult. The gracious older woman who’d answered the phone when I’d called the camp at the start of my first summer was named Mrs. Bard. She was the widow of one of Bethel’s former directors and still lived on the school’s campus. She was known for her sensitivity to God’s leading and had become like a spiritual grandmother to Priscilla. “If it’s okay with Mrs. Bard,” we said, only half jokingly, “it’s probably okay with God.” (The reverse was actually closer to the truth.)
So we sought her out one day and explained our situation. “I thought something like that was going on,” she said, “because whenever I looked out my window” (she was housebound at this point), “I either saw you together, or one of you looking for the other.” “Now I’m not saying I’ve heard anything about this from the Lord yet,” she continued, “but . . .” And then she held up a hand in the air, her fingers making the “OK” sign.
Around this same time, we went with some of the other camp staff on an excursion to check out a possible day hike for the campers. The route led partway up a small mountain. On the way back down, we came to a clearing and had an unobstructed view of the entire valley spreading out below us. At that very moment, the sun broke from behind us through the rain clouds that had hovered low in the sky all day. As a result, a gorgeous double rainbow formed in the valley. We could see the entire arc. It filled our field of vision. And then a large flock of white birds flew across the bow from one side to the other, their wings glistening golden in the sunlight. It hardly seemed as if we were still in the real world. It was more like being transported into the movie Yellow Submarine.
I noticed something very interesting about the double rainbow. The colors in the top half were in the reverse order of those in the bottom half. Suddenly something “clicked” for me. I realized that if the top rainbow had simply duplicated the bottom one, that would be more of a good thing. But since it complemented it, together they formed an even better thing.
I explained earlier that I’d been looking for someone “just like me” as a wife. Now I realized what a bad idea that had been. We would have needlessly duplicated our strengths, without being able to cover one another’s weaknesses. I no longer saw Priscilla and myself as different or opposite. I understood that we were complementary. This resolved the last remaining question—not hesitation, but question—I’d had about marrying her.
Since we were now officially dating, during my extra week in Canada we went on what turned out to be our one and only date as boyfriend and girlfriend. We drove into Montreal and toured the grounds of the Olympic stadium and the adjoining botanical gardens. We had supper together before driving back to Sherbrooke. Fittingly, this was at a McDonald’s.
When I returned to Connecticut, my parents picked me up at the bus station. I blurted out my news on the way home. “I wondered whether something like this was happening when you stayed longer,” my mother said. She and my father immediately and happily gave their blessing.
Once we got home, I shared the news with my siblings as well. When I told one of my brothers, he responded, “I thought you were going out with Anne.” But then he very encouragingly shared something that had happened on the second day of the graduation. Our grandfather had taken him aside and asked, “Are Chris and Priscilla dating?” “No,” he’d replied, “they’re just friends.” “That’s too bad,” my grandfather said, “because she seems like a very fine young lady.”
Priscilla’s family was by now camping at Sacandaga and I couldn’t reach her parents by phone, as I would have tried to do otherwise. So I wrote them a letter and waited for their answer.
That Sunday, during the sharing time at our church, I related the developments in our lives and asked for prayer for guidance and direction. My father said how happy he was for us and how much he was looking forward to welcoming Priscilla into the family. After the service, a longtime friend told me that when she first saw me walk into the church that morning, she said to herself, “He’s getting married,” though she knew nothing of what had transpired during my weeks away.
On August 13, 1980, I received a letter from Priscilla’s father in which he wrote, “I would be happy and proud to have you as a son-in-law.” That evening I phoned Priscilla. (She had stayed in Sherbrooke so we could remain in communication.) “I have something to ask you,” I told her. “I’m sitting down,” she said. “Should I kneel?” I asked. “Of course!” she replied. And so it was that, after dating for nine days, we got engaged.
At Priscilla’s cousin’s wedding, where she was a bridesmaid, one young man took an immediate interest in her. He pursued every opportunity to get to know her that weekend, and when she left he told her that he’d like to see her again.
When I got to Bethel camp later that month, I learned that she’d received a letter from him inviting her to come visit him in the state where he lived. As I was also a trusted source of relationship advice for her, she asked me what I thought she should do. “I think it would be best if he came here first,” I suggested. Since he was the one taking the initiative, it shouldn’t be up to Priscilla to make the first exploratory trip. So she wrote back and invited him to come to Quebec, and he accepted.
At the start of the last week I’d be at Camp de Béthel that summer, Priscilla came to me with a further relational problem. “What if there’s somebody I like better?” she asked. There was a twinkle in her eyes and the beginnings of a smile around the corners of her mouth. I looked over my right shoulder, then over my left shoulder, didn’t see anybody else, and realized she was talking about me. “I’ll answer your question very soon,” I promised.
Prayer, as I’ve mentioned, is an interactive process. I knew it would only be right to pray about such a potential change in this friendship that had meant so much to both of us over the years. I was fully expecting to get a mild scolding for even bringing up the possibility of a romantic relationship with Priscilla. “Don’t you dare lead her on!” I thought God would say. “You know you’re getting on a bus back to the U.S. at the end of the week, and that you have no plans to see her again. So be a gentleman and step gracefully out of the way.”
Instead, I received some of the clearest and most unmistakable divine guidance I’ve ever gotten in my life. It was as if God was actually speaking the words to me, “This is the woman I want you to marry.” Oh, I said to myself, then I’d better stay another week.
Sometimes when we believe we’ve discerned what God wants us to do, we then struggle to obey. That wasn’t the case in this instance. Up to this point, the difference in our ages and life situations had kept me from considering a romantic relationship with Priscilla as even a possibility. But now we were both “in our twenties,” finished with college, and making future plans. It appeared that God wanted me to make my plans around her. The rightness of this washed over me. I could almost feel all the different areas of my brain lighting up at the same time.
We’d first met as fellow workers in a shared enterprise, an outreach to children in the name of Christ. I knew she was fully committed to His cause. I was planning to enter the Christian ministry, and she would be an invaluable fellow worker. Though I would only later discover her talents for things such as entertaining, interior decorating, floral design, landscaping, and so forth, I had had the chance to witness her remarkable gifts for reaching out to others. Here’s a story from this last summer at Camp de Béthel that I also shared in my eulogy at her memorial service.
I was doing double duty as a counselor and as a lifeguard/swimming instructor. The doctor Priscilla had been working for had reluctantly concluded that she didn’t have an adequate medical vocabulary in French to transcribe his reports accurately, so he’d had to let her go. This left her free to help at the camp, and since she was also a trained lifeguard, she worked with me at the pool.
At the start of one week, the middle school campers came bursting through the gate of the pool enclosure for their first lesson, running, shouting, and splashing into the water. Behind them a girl stepped shyly just inside the gate and stood against the fence with her head down, both hands grasping the towel around her neck. “Can you handle the rest of the class?” Priscilla asked me. “I think so,” I said. While I tried to carry on some semblance of a swimming lesson with all the others, she walked over to the girl and started talking quietly with her. Soon she got her to take her hand and walk over to the edge of the pool. Before the class was over, she had her in the shallow end and was pulling her though the water with both hands. The girl was smiling. I remember saying to myself at the time that it was like watching magic.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized what a wonderful and effective life partner and ministry partner Priscilla would make. It seemed clear that we could make a greater contribution to the kingdom of God together than we could separately. Beyond this, we’d always enjoyed any time we’d been able to spend together. And she was beautiful. And maybe we already were in love. Maybe we had been long before either one of us realized it.
But now was the time to do something about it. Someone else was interested in Priscilla, so I needed to make my move without delay.
One afternoon a little later that week we were sitting together on a poolside bench, waiting for the first recreational swimmers to arrive, when she asked me where I planned to hide for the “staff hunt” the campers would go on that evening. “Over there,” I indicated, pointing over her shoulder. She turned to look, opening a clear path to one cheek, on which I quickly planted a friendly kiss.
As boys and girls were supposed to maintain an 18-inch “air gap” between themselves, this was a flagrant violation of camp rules. But since the first swimmers came into the pool enclosure a moment later, Priscilla wasn’t free to ask out loud, “Why did you just kiss me?” However, after a two-hour recreational swim for the campers, throughout which electricity crackled between the lifeguards, she came over and stood quietly and expectantly beside me as I was closing up the pool.
“I guess you’d like to know what that meant,” I began. I reported how I’d prayed and the answer I’d received, and told her, “If I were in a position to ask you to marry me, I would, but I don’t feel that I am.” I explained that I’d always planned to finish three years of seminary and become established as a minister before I got married.