It Happened on Maple Street

Maybe he’d seen it coming. Maybe not. He’d expected her to break up with him someday.

He had no idea what to say.

But if he didn’t get out of there, he was going to lose it. He had to do something quick.

“Okay.” He pulled her tiny ring off his little finger and dropped it in the palm of her hand.

She stared at the ring. Just stared at it. And then, without another word she pulled his ring off her finger, yarn still in place, put it in his outstretched palm, turned around, and walked away.

He watched until she was out of sight.

I fell apart. There was just no pretty way to describe me after Tim. I tried to pretend I was okay, to keep up appearances. I was a Gumser, after all. There was protocol.

At some point my parents intervened. They’d determined that I had to get out—away from home. I was too much of a recluse. I spent way too much time with my nose in books. It wasn’t healthy. I had

to learn how to live in the world. Survive in the world.

But not too far out into the world. Not to begin with. It was decided, with Chum’s help, that starting in the fall of 1979 I’d transfer to Armstrong University.

During his last years of high school Chum had joined a pretty strict church. One I’d never heard of. Before that he’d refused to go to church at all, so my parents, while disappointed that he wasn’t going to church with the family, were glad that he was going. Armstrong was affiliated with his church—supported by it. Students attending the university were required to live on campus, to keep a strict curfew, to attend chapel every day, take a Bible class every semester, and go to church every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. They were allowed only four absences a semester from any of those obligations.

Girls were required to wear dresses to class and to church, and dancing was prohibited. So was necking. Any girl exhibiting any impure behavior would be expelled.

If I went to Armstrong, I could be a good girl again. I’d fit right in with my need to be a virgin before I got married.

And maybe, if I worked hard enough, God would forgive me for my indiscretions with Tim.

I’d been singing in the adult choir at my church at home for years, the only kid in the choir. I was active in my youth group, had taught vacation Bible school the past couple of summers. Getting closer to God appealed to me. Maybe He’d fill the gaping hole in my heart.

I agreed to go to Alabama with Chum.

Agreed to sell my little blue Manta.

I packed my things without complaint. The truth was I was glad to go. To find a new life. The old one hurt too much. Everywhere I looked were memories of Tim.

Of the things I’d done with him.

Obviously I’d romanticized the entire encounter. What to me had been acts of love had only been acts of sex for him.

He was what I’d been warned about—an eighteen-year-old hormonal boy whose pants ruled his heart and mind.

I didn’t know whether I’d lost him because I wouldn’t have sex with him, or because he’d grown tired of fooling around with my body. I just knew I’d lost him.

Armstrong wasn’t what I expected—first and foremost because right before Chum and I left for school, he announced that he wasn’t going back. He’d proposed marriage to his girlfriend—also a member of his church—and they were going to move to Columbus, Ohio. He was dropping out of college, but he promised my father that he’d enroll at Ohio State the following quarter.

I didn’t want to miss a semester of school. I had no choice but to go to Alabama without him.

I was so homesick those first few months that I wanted to run away. The rules stifled me, made me feel as though I didn’t fit in as I longed for the freedom I’d known at home.

But eventually, after attending daily chapel and going to Bible class, I started to draw closer to God. To understand how little my drama mattered in the big scheme of life. I volunteered at an orphanage. And joined a service club. I did jail ministry and sang in the school choir. I grew to like the strictness, made friends, had some fun times with girls in my dorm—and started to heal. Tim was still there. In my heart. In my thoughts. Even in my dreams at night.

But God was slowly starting to fill the emptiness deep inside me.

As Christmas drew near and I knew I was going to be near by Tim again, I sent him a card. Just a friendship card this time. But I wanted him to know I was thinking about him.

I wanted him to know my door was open.

I didn’t hear back from him.