What happened one year ago today

It was Tuesday, and we were sitting in American Lit class, my best friend and me. Occupying our usual seats in adjacent desks on the left side of the large classroom, near the front. Usually she made it to the classroom before I did, was sitting there waiting; and we would chat before class.

At about 9:29 am, Professor Ann Winters walked into the room, holding some highly-anticipated documents: our graded papers. Our assignment had been to write papers on the role of family in one of the short stories we had read early in the semester. Lana and I had each decided, independently, to write about "The Revolt of 'Mother'" by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. We had gathered sources, written, rewritten, had writing conferences with Ms. Winters, and finally turned in our final copies to her. Now anxiously we awaited the verdict, the grade, the pronouncement of doom.

The good professor began to walk around the room, distributing graded papers to various students. She handed Lana's paper to her; my best friend flipped through it till she could see the grade, and immediately burst into tears. Oh no.

Her paper had received a grade of 69. Not because of the quality of the writing, but because of a technicality on sources. Ms. Winters had told us earlier in the semester that in order to make a C or higher on the paper, we had to exactly follow the rules on how many sources were in our paper.

Lana had been unsure of whether her secondary sources qualified to meet the rules. But since she had met with Mrs. Winters to look at the paper, and Mrs. Winters hadn't said anything about the sources, Lana assumed they were fine.

She was wrong. And she didn't make a C or higher on the paper. And now she was crying, and asking Mrs. Winters why she had received this grade.

The professor didn't budge. She told Lana that the guidelines for sources had been clearly laid out on our assignment sheet. However, she said, she was willing to let Lana fix the sources and turn in the paper again for a new grade; Lana's final grade for the paper would then be a composite of the old grade and the new.

It was a merciful deal, on the whole, but Lana's poor grade had wounded her. She wept off and on throughout the entire class. Once or twice she looked over at me, but I had no words for her. Even with Ms. Winters' willingness to regrade the paper, Lana's grade wouldn't be as high as it should have been.

The class discussion covered a couple of poems by Robert Frost: "Design" and "Out, Out --". My notes only show the rhyme scheme of the poems, though I'm certain we discussed them much more deeply. I tried to pay attention, but I was mostly focusing on my friend and how bad I felt for her.

At the end of class, we gathered our backpacks and walked out of the Holt building, heading for our next class in the Gardner building. Beginning to cry again, Lana talked about how she felt betrayed by Mrs. Winters. I wanted to say something, anything, to comfort her, to make her feel better. All I could do was listen, and sympathize.

Now we were sitting in the Gardner lecture hall, with about ten minutes till the American Revolution class started. Lana was still trying to control her tears. I glanced over at her, then looked away again.

And at that moment I fell in love with my best friend. Emotions I had never felt before began to sweep over me. I looked at her and knew that now, in this moment, I loved her as I had never loved her before, as I would never love anyone else. While she cried over her grade, while I sat in silence, I knew that I had irrevocably crossed a line.

From the very first summer I met Lana (2003), I had prayed about her as a prospect for marriage. I was careful as I prayed, never assuming what was God's will, pleading with Him to show me one way or the other and to allow me to keep my heart undefiled. He didn't show me, not for a long, long time. I became Lana's friend, and then her close friend, and then her best friend, and all the while I grew increasingly more attracted to her. But my heart was still mine; I had not given any part of it to her.

Now it was all hers. And for the first time I allowed myself to feel the feelings that I had shunned for so long. I knew that God had at last revealed His answer to me, had shown me that this crying young woman beside me was to be my bride. And I loved her.

In class that day, Dr. Robert Willoughby lectured on the American-British standoff at Boston in 1775, after the Battle of Bunker Hill. His lecture, as always, was engrossing and enlightening; I took diligent, copious notes, but my mind was rather elsewhere.

And Lana Marie had no idea, would have no idea for nearly six months. We grew even closer as friends, and spent a lot more time in class together, and worked on a movie together, and prayed for each other. She thought that perhaps someday I would ask to court her. Someday, some far-off time in the future. Maybe.

And she didn't know, not till a candle-lit evening in August, that I was madly in love with her, a passion both utterly secret and wholly pure.

It was February 27, 2007. One year ago today.