The weight of one decision

When I was about 18 there was a dramatic shift in my life. For years, I had been unnoticeable. Unremarkable. I didn’t want to be that girl.

I wanted to be funny, attractive, intelligent – I wanted to be the beautiful, colorful butterfly, not the brown speckled moth. I wanted guys to notice me, to look into my eyes and know that they saw me and wanted to be with me - not the flashy, shallow girls that seemed to get all the attention in high school. Around 18, things changed. Somehow, I gained a bit more confidence. To steal an ancient metaphor, I “bloomed.” I stopped fading into the background and others started to notice me.

Pat was a witty guy. That was the thing that drew me to him. I love people who have a smart sense of humor. Anyone can do potty humor, but someone who can make a smart joke or a clever statement? That was attractive. Pat could weave sarcasm and irony together to make the most wonderful cloak of humor you’ve ever seen. He was the brother of a friend and we worked together at a high school camp as counselors when I was 19. After the camp we spent a lot of time together. Lunches, softball games, college group outings at church. And then he was gone.

Pat spent most of the rest of the summer in the Soviet Union with a group of college kids. Before he left, he asked if I’d like him to bring me back anything. I told him I’d always wanted a set of those dolls that stack within the bodies of each other. Remember seeing those on Sesame Street? In August, he returned home and we went out for lunch before he went back to college. He proudly presented me a lovely set of the dolls. Nine in all – the smallest one being a tiny red pellet that fit into a doll smaller than the tip of my thumb. I loved the nature of these dolls – you could take them all out and set them side by side and they looked just the same but each a bit smaller. Or, you could put them all within each other and hide them in the one largest doll. They were beautiful and I thanked him and offered to pay him back for them. He looked hurt and said, “Kim, they’re a gift. I don’t want your money.” I just didn’t get it.

He was off back to school within a few days and life moved on. There were just a few other guys at school and church that noticed me, but like a flitting, nervous moth looking for light, I never sat still long enough for any of them to really impress me. Pat came home for Thanksgiving weekend and called to invite me out for dinner. Looking forward to great conversation and stories of life away at college (I was living at home and attending Portland State) I jumped at the chance.

Pat’s idea was to take a 40 minute drive to the Columbia River Gorge and hike up Multnomah Falls first. In NOVEMBER? In the DARK? I remember thinking on the drive to the falls, “This is a bad idea. I don’t want to do this.” When we arrived, the popular tourist site was literally deserted. It was dark, cold and walking up the path, it was almost icy in some spots. I really hadn’t dressed in hiking clothes so when we reached the first bridge, I begged and whined to go back to the car and skip the rest of the hike. Pat tried to encourage me to keep going, but by now, I was in full whining mode and I put my foot down. HE could hike to the top if he’d like, I would like to go back to the car and warm my frozen toes, thank you very much!

We drove back to Portland and had dinner at an old diner that’s not even there anymore. The conversation was great, just as I expected and he kept me transfixed with stories of wild college pranks, the exploits of his crazy friends and the quirky characteristics of some of his colorful professors. After dinner we got in the car for another drive. With a gleam in his eye, he announced, “I want to show you something.”

We drove to one of the highest points in the city, where the radio towers reach to the sky and blink at the planes traveling overhead. The view was incredible and after a warm meal, I was ready to venture out in the cold November air again to enjoy the view. We walked around the crest and marveled at the lights of the city. There was a water tower, dark and cold against the black sky. Against the side, a small ladder started about 4 feet from the ground.

“Come on, let’s climb to the top,” he said.

I looked at him with my eyes wide and my mouth open. “Are you kidding me?” Signs on the side of the tower blazed with red letters, “NO TRESPASSING”.

For the next ten minutes he cajoled and teased and tried to convince me to climb that thing. About five minutes into it, I started thinking to myself, “What is it with this guy and heights?” Something I wasn’t really terrified of, but not something I considered “fun”. The more he tried to convince me, the stronger my conviction and the deeper my heels dug into my proverbial sand. Still true of me today; the more you try to convince me to do something, the more my resistance to that idea will likely grow. I DON’T respond well to pressure.

We got back in the car a few minutes later and called it a night. That was really the last time I saw Pat for a long time. Within a few years, he drifted away from the connections of the area, his brother left town and to this day, I’m not sure what became of him. But over the years, I’ve sometimes wondered . . . was there something at the top of that trail at Multnomah Falls? Was there a note? A carefully planned treasure hunt? A couple of friends waiting with a picnic? What was at the top of that water tower? A boom box with carefully chosen music to set a romantic mood? A warm blanket and sweet treats? Did my fears and insecurities short-circuit some creative young man’s efforts to make me feel special? Did this handsome, funny, articulate guy actually want more than a friendship? It wasn’t an outcome I was used to – did I make the wrong decision not to climb the water tower?

It might have been a decision I would regret except for the fact that less than one month later, I found myself having dinner with a handsome young middle-school director from our church. His sparkling blue eyes, thick dark hair and his mischievous smile took my breath away. And he was smart, and funny, and caring. And suddenly, it didn’t matter what was at the top of that water tower. What mattered was what was in the future. The weight of that one decision was lifted and the moth found her light.