The first time I saw my husband, I was in church, my singles ward, sitting in the same chapel that I had sat in since I was in primary, with it’s large stained glass window behind the pulpit. It was testimony meeting in October 2008 and a new member of the ward came up in his brown, striped suit to share his testimony in between the long silences.
Wow. That guy was pretty cute. And new (it was his first Sunday in that ward). Someone new to the ward was always good. And, as a bonus, he was a recently returned missionary, coming out of Peru. He rambled a bit. And then he said those worlds that I will always remember: “I like school.” And proceeded to talk about how he was excited to go back to school.
Not a lot of people would say that they liked school, especially in the middle of a testimony, of all things. But as I was a very school-oriented girl, this pretty-cute-returned-missionary-who-liked-school suddenly became very interesting.
The new boy, Dillon was his name, sat alone, over on the left side of the room. After the meeting, I decided to go over and talk him. I had just become interested in boys for the first time in my life, and actually talking to one was a very large step for me.
I think I was wearing a pink dress (pink! I’m so glad I got rid of it) and my hair was cropped ultra-short in a hair cut gone awry. I was tall, and, well, still somewhat socially awkward, or at least odd (which is what Dillon thought of me). Maybe not the best first impression.
I introduced myself. We talked. I can still remember much of what was said: we talked about the spelling of his name (Dillon instead of Dylan). We talked about his mission (how he was in the Andes and spoke a little Quechua and then at the end of his mission helped rebuild Chincha after the earthquake). My friend joined in the conversation as well.
Poor Dillon. Suddenly accosted by tall, intimidating girls when he barely knew how to speak English. He bore it well. And did most of the talking, as usual.
We said goodbye.
I was happy.