Jenny kiss’d me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss’d me.
Leigh Hunt, 1838
‘ve never like the phrase, “falling in love.” It’s always seemed to make the stuff of devotion and commitment sound more like a haphazard accident – or a trap. I know love can and often does blindside us, and we can feel utterly helpless in its grip. But I don’t like feeling trapped, or helpless. And I do like loving, and being loved.
That said, I learned early on and all too well that, as Shakespeare warned one midsummer night, “the path of true love never did run smooth.”
I was six years old and the new boy in a church kindergarten class in West Monroe, Louisiana when my eyes first glimpsed Sandy Walker. Red hair and freckles. Sitting just two children down from me in the story time circle, just the other side of my best and shortest friend, Ken Wink. Ah, Sandy. I didn’t know how full a heart could be ‘til I gazed on those auburn tresses.
When we bowed our heads at the end of the story, I prayed with all my heart for … something. I just knew that God knew how I felt about that girl, and that, unlike me, He could do something about it. I would have made some suggestions, maybe, but there was a commotion to my right – a lot of wiggling, giggling, shushing. I opened my eyes to behold:
Ken, kissing Sandy. And her, kissing him right back.
Rarely has a heart snapped so cleanly in half as mine did in that moment.
A year later, I was making my tentative way through first grade, with the kindly assistance of three girls who, for whatever reason, had adopted me. Alison, the little one with dark bangs and dark eyes; Charlotte, with ribboned curls, looming over the rest of us; and Janis, with her pretty brown hair and shy smile. Together, we roamed the recess playground, finding our way in the primary wilderness.
It was customary, back then, for children to bring their personal items – notes, keys, milk money – to school in cigar boxes, which we kept in the open space under the seat of our desks. Come the final bell, we'd all slide to the floor, pull out our box, and make for the bus or our parent’s waiting car.
One day, as I reached for my box, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, and Janis, waiting, kissed me. It came quick as her smile, and she was gone. But the world had changed.
Wonders that have stirred boys’ souls since the beginning of time became my own, and I stumbled from the room in a daze.
A year after that, little blonde Gwen with the thick glasses kissed me in almost the exact same setting, and in the same sweet, swift way. And now I knew that there could be more than one girl in the world for me.
My only regret with Gwen was wondering how Janis might feel about things. She and I were not in the same class this go-around. I’d never seen her on the second-grade playground, in the cafeteria, at the bus stop. But deep in my heart, I knew she must be wondering about me, even as I wondered about her.
My family moved, halfway through that year. On my last day at the school, the teachers herded us into the school auditorium to show us a movie on the life of Jesus. (Yes, public schools once did that sort of thing.) At intermission, I stood up, wistful, looking around one last time, yearning for one more glimpse of Janis … one small chance to say goodbye.
My glance fell to the seats right behind me, and there, looking up, was the embarrassed, frowning countenance of the girl herself, as she sat, holding hands with another boy.
That summer, at a conference center in the hills of North Carolina, I was deposited at a day camp while my parents attended morning sessions nearby. Among my fellow campers was a lovely young blonde, dressed up so pretty and smiling gently in my direction. Janis who?
On the last day of the week, heaven smiled down. The kids in our group were divided up for an art project – and the little blonde and I were placed at a table all our own. We were directed by the teacher to draw a picture of the outdoors, and the two of us set to coloring … not talking so much, but blushing a little as we passed each other the crayons. Soon, she was smiling more and more in my direction.
The teacher walked over, gazed down on our handiwork. “Oh,” she said to the young vision across from me, “what a beautiful garden you have there.” The little blonde beamed, and cast her shining blue eyes full into mine. I began to float up off my chair.
“But,” the teacher said, “I think I like Chris’s picture even better. He didn’t put a smiley face on the sun in his picture. And the sun doesn’t really have a face, does it? Does it?”
She tried to get the little girl’s attention, but that bright gleam in those blue eyes had turned into a death ray.
You learn things along the way. That some girls would rather spend less time praying and more time kissing. That a good kiss is no measure of enduring devotion. That sometimes, even a good girl can’t make you forget a faithless one. And that nothing you say or do – or don’t say, or don’t do – can woo a girl when she’s not in the mood.
God bless Sandy, Janis, and Gwen, wherever they are. And I hope that pretty blonde learned to handle criticism, somewhere along the way.
I wonder who’s kissing them now.
Probably Ken Wink.
Comments