Feeling: In Love

The three year high school crush that turned into forever.

When I was 14 years old, I transferred to a new high school about six weeks into the school year. This does not seem like a big deal. But I urge you to remember what it was like to be 14. This was absolutely the biggest deal possible.

I had red skinny jeans (or were they jeggings?), Vans, and a knot in my stomach on my first day of school. I was confident everyone already had friends. And lunch tables. Oh gosh, lunch. Where will I sit? I decided that if I hadn’t found someone to sit next to by lunchtime, I’d find an office and eat in some empty room so no one would know if I was alone.

I got out of my mom’s car and went to the front desk, where a nice lady showed me to my first-period English class and printed me a bell schedule. All eyes locked on me as I entered the room, and Mrs. Anderson showed me my new desk in the back.

Some looked at me, leaned over, and talked to each other. Some didn’t notice I was there. Some said hello. My heart was pounding as I stared at Shakespeare posters taped to the walls, trying to avoid the stares.

With my schedule printed out (and no map), I tried to find each new classroom after the bell rang. Strangers pointed me down halls and to rooms. After lunch, my assigned “peer buddy” walked me to the class I was most excited about: Journalism.

I entered the classroom, which was also a half-kitchen because Mrs. Gibson taught Culinary too. Her pencil skirt, short grey pixie cut, bright blue eyes, and gentle voice affirmed what I already knew — it would be my favorite class.

The room smelled like pasta and often had sewing machines sprawled on classroom desks (she taught Home Ec too). It had orange countertops and a singular giant Mac computer in the back.

A few students were already at their desks when I walked in, staring at my red skinny jeans. Maybe these were too bright red for my first day, I decided.

Gavin swung open the door and promptly drew attention to the new girl standing there, thinking about her pants. With his tiny pink shorts, leather Sperrys, swooping Justin Bieber haircut, and booming loud voice, I quickly classified him in my mind. I had known Gavins before. He loudly asked me what my name was.

I nervously said, “Jenna.”

“Chenna?!”

“No, Gavin, her name is Jenna. Not Chenna,” Mrs. Gibson said.

But it was far too late for such rhetoric. I was already Chenna.

Joey walked in next, and Gavin promptly said, “Joey, this is Chenna!”

Joey politely said, “Nice to meet you Chenna.” And Gavin erupted in laughter. Joey had thought it was my real name.

And Mrs. Gibson fussed a bit, already six weeks into the school year and exhausted by Gavin. I laughed nervously. I was happy to be a part of any joke because perhaps it was a semblance of acceptance.

Then Connor walked in. Gavin was quick to try his joke again. “Connor, this is Chenna.”

“No, it is not. It is Jenna!” Piped in Mrs. Gibson, exasperated, searching for her teacher’s lounge styrofoam cup of black coffee.

And then Connor put his hand out to shake mine. (Keep in mind that’s a generally odd thing for a 15-year-old to do)

And then I looked him in the eyes.

And then an unexplainable surge of lightning hit my entire being and ran through every limb and nerve. I reached out to shake his hand, and I swear I saw colors. His green eyes shrunk me into a tiny speck, and I immediately avoided looking at them again, for as long as possible.

I found a seat. It felt like my hand was on fire.

I tried to listen to Mrs. Gibson, but I was already completely focused on my exit strategy for the end of class. How can I get out of here without looking him in the eyes again? I looked over, he was looking at me.

My eyes darted to anything else. I saw the entire side of his face turn bright red. My hand felt like it was still touching his.

I adjusted to my new school faster than I thought I would. I quickly found the artsy girl group — they liked show tunes and Tumblr and thought everyone wearing the same Lily Pulitzer skirts was weird.

6th period Journalism was my favorite class. It was small, a mix of kids from all grade levels. We had a good class synergy and laughed a lot.

And of course, the thrill of avoiding eye contact for 45 minutes.

I knew what his cologne smelled like. Connor was nearly half a foot taller than every sophomore — I could spot him any time of day. I knew his grey Jansport backpack. I knew how to find him in every pep rally, hallway, and fire drill.

Find him…so I could avoid him, of course.

Every day in 6th period, he’d try to talk to me. Sometimes I’d bite. He figured out that if he was goofy with the other guys, I’d play along and pay attention. I could handle that because it felt communal. But in the joking, we’d occasionally lock eyes. His face (his ears too) would turn dark red, my eyes would dart around like lasers, looking anywhere else.

He’d try to make it look unintentional, but he always held the door open for me. He also tried to make it look unintentional that he would linger in my 9th-grade Biology class just to be in the same room as me. He was in 10th grade, mind you. The teacher would have to ask him to leave.

I don’t actually recall how it was decided, but we were determined to be the two students in charge of the video that would accompany the release of the monthly school paper.

We started spending time alone to work on the projects. Sometimes we’d have to finish videos during study hall — sitting at the tiniest desk ever, staring at the dinosaur Macintosh, side by side. My heart would beat out of my chest until I left the room. But I finally started to talk to him a little bit. We talked about what we wanted to do with our lives, about movies, music, faith, friends, traveling, and aspirations. Sometimes our knees would bump against each other.

One time, I was sitting in a chair, and he kept his hand on the back of it. Are you ever just so aware of how close someone is to you? And it feels like electricity? Yeah. I thought about the hand on the back of the chair for like 8 weeks.

A note appeared in my locker one day, scratched on notebook paper with stick figures on there too. I didn’t tell any of my friends. I wrote back. And then I got another. And I tucked one back in his locker. We’d transfer them to one another completely in secret — usually in our lockers, but you’d have to put it in there when you were in the hallway alone, so no one saw.

On Valentine’s Day, Connor dropped the whole act of being discreet. My locker was filled with heart-shaped balloons, cut-out hearts, red velvet pop tarts, and a note. The most serious note yet. I hid it in my room. Both exhilarated and mortified.

On the Friday before spring break, standing by the carline, he suddenly wrapped his arms around me from behind, gave me and my backpack a short hug, quietly said bye, and then disappeared. I thought about that one for like 12 weeks.

I said I didn’t want to date. I said I wanted to make friends because I was so new to the school — I didn’t want a boyfriend yet, I was only 14. It was true. I’d never had a boyfriend before, I don’t think it crossed my mind to have a boyfriend at that point. Another thing for you to remember about high school, particularly this small high school: it was notable, dare I say a bit scandalous, for someone to date an older grade level. Anytime he gave me public attention, a swarm of girls would ask me all about it. I was shy, new, and did not like the attention.

I was terrified by how serious he was about me. And I was terrified about how I felt about him. So I just held it all inside me, avoided eye contact, and dreamed about him in a tuxedo at the end of an aisle.

Time passed, and our secret notes stopped. He finally took a hint, and I was devastated. I watched him grow frustrated, and I knew I was the cause. I would smile at him, flirt, and disappear. I would not date him. I’d avoid answering the Facebook messages he’d send. I wouldn’t give him my number. Sometimes I’d chat casually and look him right in the eyes, like he was my friend. Sometimes I wouldn’t say a word all of class. I usually walked past him in the hall like I didn’t know him. I noticed he wasn’t coming to Biology anymore. I had to open my own door. I knew my avoidance had gotten to him. I felt sad he wasn’t there, but I didn’t know what to do.

Throughout the next three years, he’d try again, now and then. Random invites or check-ins. But I’d avoid them. It was simply too serious and I knew it. We dated other people.

I was the volunteer prom photographer one year, and they seated me at the table with him and his girlfriend.

It turns out that his senior year, our assigned parking spots in the student lot were side by side. We didn’t know that all year, until one day we showed up at the exact same time.

Classic 2012 Connor, not being subtle at all

I gave my teacher a copy of my favorite book (“Love Does” by Bob Goff) and saw Connor walking down the halls once with the book.

He knew I had given it to the teacher and took it to read.

I knew he was reading it because I read it.

We still had secrets even though we didn’t talk.

In the throes of the summer of being 16, I broke up with my boyfriend. I cried in my room about it. I listened to a lot of U2, Tom Petty, and Taylor Swift (1989). I went to the beach and became a camp counselor. I drove around a lot with my friends, listening to more, compounding Taylor Swift. I finally took out my infected Claire’s cartilage piercing. Some high school broken-heart recovery options.

I couldn’t shake a feeling, though. As I pondered breaking up with the football player — diligently sniffling and writing pros and cons lists in my journal — a boy came back to mind. A boy who did not relent. Who wrote me letters even when I avoided him. Who gave me more attention, sweetness, and affection while I ignored him.

Connor inadvertently taught me how I could be treasured. And nothing else would cut it now. He altered what I believed a relationship could be, even though I never gave him the opportunity to be in a relationship. Now he had already graduated from high school.

I did something bold.

I wrote him a letter. It had been 3 years since we exchanged notes. I mailed it to his house.

I got a text back. And I was astounded to see it.

“Jenna Cherry, a card I did not expect. Thank you for the encouragement, it means a lot. Although I haven’t told you it’s still true you are one of my favorite people. We both matured a lot from that first year at LCS and I like who you’ve become. Your faith makes me smile. Again, really sweet card - whatever guy you end up with. He’s a lucky guy. If you ever end up at SEU, lemme know.”

I couldn’t believe it.

I texted him back. We agreed to get coffee, but I still insisted it was not a date. I wore ripped high-waisted denim pants, my favorite Pac Sun hoodie, and insisted on buying my own drink. We talked like we used to when we were editing videos together, but now I was 17 and he was 18. The air felt nervous, and it was still so hard to look him in the eyes. Eventually, I said I had to head to a dinner.

As we walked to the parking lot, Florida rain started to drizzle.

His worn-out truck was stopped at a stop sign, I was right behind him in my red VW, waiting for him to turn out of the lot. But all of a sudden, his running lights turned off. The car door opened, and he was walking towards me. Connor tapped on my window.

“Can we keep talking?”

I started to feel that familiar electric pulse run through me. He began to ramble, struggling through thoughts and feelings, rain drenching him. I handed him an umbrella, and he kept talking. Eventually, I asked if he’d like to sit in my car.

In my passenger seat, talking in circles, exhausted by himself, he basically told me there was no other girl for him. It had always been me. He wanted to keep seeing me, and only me, probably forever if I was okay with that.

(This was our first date, lol)

I was terrified and exhilarated again. His pursuit was always so powerful, I didn’t know how to handle it.

We decided I’d think about it all, I wasn’t sure yet. I smiled at him, and he looked relieved…a little.

We tried more dates. Every date, I liked him more, but I wrestled with my fear. I wouldn’t quite commit to being his girlfriend. I wanted to take it slow, I said. I was really scared I’d get my heart broken, or I’d like him too much, or it would hurt too bad — I was just scared of everything.

Under twinkling lights outside a restaurant on our third date or so, we nearly fought.

Him moving towards me, me taking steps back.

Suddenly, he pulled out his phone and began reading me a letter from my favorite author, Bob Goff. The letter was about me. Connor wrote him asking for advice on how to pursue me well. And he answered. And he encouraged us both.

And the fear that gripped my heart began to loosen. I started to trust (myself and him). And I wrapped him in a hug and, for the first time, I let myself hold on.

And then all the full force of colors I had seen sparks of came to life. I was very much in love. So much so, I accidentally let out an “I love you” in the first two months of dating, turning 80 shades of red in embarrassment.

Flowers, notes, falling asleep on the phone, long drives, loud music, wearing his flannel, homecoming, prom, graduation, crying in the car about which college I’d pick, lying on his floor talking as long as we could until I had to go home. Oh gosh — I got so sad too. I felt the deepest shade of blue every minute I wasn’t with him. It was so dramatic, I didn’t know what to do with myself. It was like every movie and love song and sunset I had ever loved or hoped for exploded inside of me. I was 17, and how the heck do you handle that?!

For 3 years, we fell even more in love. Graduation, moving out, finding jobs, roommates, work, meaning. We did all of that together.

And then on our anniversary, with a ring that was lost in the mail and horrible weather that ruined the sunset, he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. Because storms, darkness, inconveniences, losses, and any setback had never deterred him from pursuing me before. And I screamed and cried, “Yes!”

We got married 6 years ago, on May 4th.

My love for him and the safety in our partnership have only amplified. Every year it gets better, I mean that genuinely. I know getting married when you are 20 does not always work out. And I know what it feels like to have a 17-year-old tell you they are going to marry someone. It’s a little crazy. I get it.

But also, we knew. We always knew. He remembers when we shook hands in Mrs. Gibson’s class, too. We both remember the moment. That was it.

He held my hand through every major life event for a decade of my life now. And it is my greatest gift here on earth. To have a husband who knocks on my car window and stands in the rain to fight for us. We helped each other grow up.

In our years side by side, we’ve shared in even richer & more romantic stories. But the origin of those high school years together makes me smile. It’s absurd, in a way. That it ever worked out, and that we came back to each other. When I nostalgically dig into the smell of the hallways, the location of our locker numbers, the texture of his backpack — I’m filled with hope at the absurdity of what more wonderful things could happen.

♥︎ WHAT TO DO WITH THIS FEELING:

When you feel in love, here are some ideas for what to do with all that energy:

• Write it all down. Every detail. In a journal somewhere. Whether it works out or not, you will be glad you documented the feelings and every minor detail. I can recall most of our early stories because 17-year-old me manically wrote them down like it was her job.

• Multiply it. When love becomes secure, spread it. Befriend boldly and wildly. Be absurd with love. Invite friends over for games. Make food for your neighbors. Pick up a stray cat and make it your own, and knit it little outfits.

• Have joy with it. No need to ruminate on its demise every hour of the day. Get out of your head, sometimes. Compare your love to the greatest Love and feel the radiant joy of it all! Have some fun. Frolic, even.

• Make art from it. See what visuals and words come out of you when you have found real love. Let it flow.

• Treasure it. Keep the relics. Be kind to one another. Tend to it, carefully.

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A little note from the author: I’m beginning a new written series exploring different feelings. (It is Feeling! Magazine, after all) Not the clinical definition of the feeling, but the sensation, the story, the color of it — how it bounces around in you. I will write about hyper-specific feelings with a lot of personal stories, combined with art, movies, and writings of others. Like how it feels when you realize a dream is lost, or grieving a friendship that faded, or the nagging feeling that you’ve outgrown something.

In celebration of six years of marriage this Sunday, the first feeling in the series is Feeling: In Love.

It is a fiery red, fading into comforting maroon when it needs to be. It is a companion, a warmth, wrapping around me, fueling me. It is a home I can move into and comfortably sigh each day.

They say write what you love. And it is no surprise that words poured out when I sat down to write about Connor. I wrote this all on an airplane at night, where I lucked out and had the row to myself. I sometimes laughed, got teary-eyed, and smiled a lot, putting the origin story into words.

Our story is my precious treasure. I can’t believe it is mine. If you, like me, are a romantic, I sincerely hope you enjoyed my deep dive into the feeling of it all.

Every love story looks totally different. I credit the whimsy, magic, longevity, and fierceness of ours to an intentional pursuit of Jesus from both of us.

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MORE INBOX CANDY:

✸ How to Host a Home Café, complete with a task list, printable invites, and menu designs!

✸ Printable Spring Bucket List designs, and a heartfelt update on this digital publication

✸ Mind Gardening: Thoughts, things, art, challenges, and feelings to be curious about, dwell on, discover, and explore.

✸ A Color Study of cherry red and seafoam blue/green (and a lobster phone wallpaper)

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