Having met (and not liked each other) a few years earlier, Teresa and I found ourselves at Maranatha in late August 1968 as the college was beginning. While I was busy working around every rule and regulation and having a good ol' time of college life, she was the epitome of grace and godliness. She was the Proctor, placed in charge of "The Cloister" (women's dormitory) as a junior and would have died rather than knowingly break a rule. An odd couple had she been willing to disregard her standards, lower herself and date me. But part of her job was to warn the female underclassmen of the likes of ME. I heard of her warnings and asked her to have a cup of coffee in the brand new campus snack shop and defend her words. We sat and fussed and argued and sparred for an hour. Words flew, innuendos and open repartee. She would not back down, and I (a senior ministerial student and debater) could not win. I bought her a dish of New York Cherry ice cream to cool things off, but she let it melt, uneaten. Finally, she grew embarrassed over the squabbling and got ready to leave. She apologized for being so frank with me. Then she asked if I had anything to say. I replied, "No, but I accept your apology." With that, color rose from her neck, she said she would NEVER speak to me again, and then picked up the dish of ice cream as she walked out . . . and unceremoniously dumped it in my lap. I WAS IN LOVE! Here was a beautiful young lady who was smarter than I, more talented, able to parry every verbal thrust I made, and would not back down one iota. The ideal woman to bear with me, bear my children and bear the unique challenges of living in a fishbowl as a pastor's wife. That day in 1968? Friday the 13th of September. And by Friday the 13th of December, I asked her to marry me (and thankfully, she accepted). We celebrated 37 years as one this June, and I love her more than ever. But never since that day will I buy New York Cherry ice cream. I may look stupid but . . .
--Bob
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