It happened many years ago, more years than I like to admit. It was the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of my graduation from high school. The old leaders of the class were still leading. They’d tracked me down. Now, they’d invited me to come and be a part of the celebration, the reunion, the remembering.
I recall those typical feelings everyone gets about going to such events: Did I still look in shape? Would that old flame be there; if so, was she married? If she was married was her husband successful? And did she ever wonder how things would have worked out if we’d stuck together? There was only one way out. The cost was a bit much, but it included a lot, all of which they read out to me: supper, hotel discount, band, dancing, open bar, all those things.
At the time I was a single parent. There was no regular girl friend. Who knew what the evening might bring? “Yeah,” I told the coordinator, “I’d love to come.” (Maybe Linda Smith would be there.)
Then the kicker came. “We heard you are a preacher.”
“I am.”
“Listen, since you’re a pastor, would you be willing to open the activities with prayer.”
“Sure,” I automatically said. After all, I’d prayed over a lot of things in my time: football games (I really pissed some people off the night I prayed for the home team to win.), the Rotary Club, a horse; why, I was the one who prayed at the ceremony for the erection of the flagpole at the grave of General Longstreet. But this was the first time I’d been asked to pray over what I was sure would become a drunken bash.
I worked hard on that prayer. I stood before the assembled group, mike in hand and prayed. I kept it. Here's how it went:
Dear God, we come to you tonight with grateful hearts. We are grateful for the crow’s feet at the corner of our eyes; they show we have laughed a lot. We are thankful for the gray that sprinkles our hair; it’s a promise that we are obtaining wisdom. For the aches and pains of our age we give thanks to you for we are reminded of our mortality. Thank you, Lord, for this time together. Let this night remind us of our youth that we might dream our dreams again and look forward to the future with eager anticipation. Be with us in our frivolity tonight; laugh with us; remember with us; and, dance with us. Forgive those couple of sins that are about to be committed. And, Lord, I beseech you, please, this night, give me the courage to finally ask Ellen Snyder to dance with me. Amen.
Later that evening, after the feast, as I sat talking to an old buddy, there was a tap on my shoulder. I looked around and there stood Ellen Snyder. She was in a blue dress with just enough clevage to challenge my ability to look her in the eye. But I managed. Her blue eyes cut deep into my being as they had when I used to secretly admire her during study hall. She was so beautiful then. She was so unapproachable, then, a goddess. And I, well, I was me.
“Well?” she said.
It took me a moment to gather my wits and to fight off that old adolescent trembling that came over me whenever Ellen was around. But I was a man now. I cleared my throat, forcing the lump downward. “Would you honor me with a dance?” I asked in my most Southern gentlemanly way.
“I would be delighted,” she replied with that smile that dazzled legions.
She took my hand. She led me to the dance floor. I don’t remember the song that was playing. It was a fast dance, I know. And it was one of the oldies from those youthful years, I'm sure. I prayed I’d not trip on my own feet. We finished that dance, and, as I made ready to lead her back to her table, she said, “Let’s dance some more.”
Another song from the days of our youth played. As we danced this dance we talked for a while. She told me of her husband, a doctor, of her children, of some memorable events in her life. I briefly shared part of my story. The song ended. We separated, but she didn’t let go of my hand.
“Oh, hell, one more,” she suggested.
“One more,” I echoed, feeling a bit of those old feelings I used to get when she sat beside me in study hall. One more? A thousand more would be fine with me.
This song was a slow one also. And this time we danced close together. I was conscious of her body as I held her as close as good manners would permit. I felt her warmth. Her head was on my shoulder. And, as the last verse of the song was playing, she reached up and gently nibbled on my ear lobe. My heart stopped beating on its way to my throat.
“You should have asked me to dance twenty-five years ago,” she whispered.
The music ended. I walked her back to her table as a tidal wave of varying emotions washed over me. She introduced me to her husband. I thought how lucky he was.
As the evening wore down, I kept glancing over at her. Mostly, she was busy laughing and talking with those at her table, the group I was never part of. But when the call for the last dance was made, she looked over at me. Her index finger crooked back and forth as she summoned me. And I, like the middle-aged teen I had become, stumbled quickly across the floor. Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to say to her husband, “May I?”
When he nodded graciously, Ellen and I made our way to the dance floor again. We danced without talking. We held each other close. To this day I can smell her perfume and feel the gentle brush of her hair. The music stopped. She looked up, and kissed me passionately on the lips, and said, “Good bye, preacher.”
“Good bye,” I said.
I’ve never seen Ellen since that night of the reunion, years ago. But sometimes, when I’m back home, I drive down the street where she lived and cannot help but wonder of what might-have-been.
It’s a trait of the human condition, is it not? So often we fail to see the wonderful possibilities that are sitting right beside us.
Don’t let this day go by without feasting on everything you encounter.
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