ii
Impressions

Mortified would be a light term for how I felt. But I was so thankful to be done riding the bike, out of the freezing air, and back in the van. The day before, the Dale House staff piled into the group home vans with bikes and bags of extra clothes for a two-day orientation of sorts, which included a bike ride over Vail Pass. As in riding over the Continental Divide, the mountain range that separates our country’s east from west.

My sea-level Seattle lungs and discount mountain bike did not prepare me for this group bonding activity. I’d arrived in Colorado only two weeks earlier. I was relieved on the first day of the bike excursion when a rare September snowstorm hit and the riding was optional. What totally baffled me were the others in the group who opted to ride in the blowing snow.

I’d already suspected I might not fit in with the rugged culture of the place. Though the Pacific Northwest was similar to Colorado in its affinity for the outdoor lifestyle, my idea of getting outside was hitting the sales at an open-air mall.

Soon after I arrived, I was sitting in the staff meeting room with my Bible, waiting for others to meander in for our group Bible study. George, the director, walked by in his wire-frame glasses and his black motorcycle jacket hanging over his marathon-running skeleton frame, a box of cigarettes tucked in his front chest pocket. He looked down at the table and laughed.

“A pink Bible?!” he shouted. “Ha, I’ve never seen a pink Bible before!”

I looked down at the pink leather cover of my Bible with my name embossed in silver letters across the front. I felt my shoulders drop as I tried to slink down in my chair. No one had ever commented on the color of my Bible before. I was suddenly aware I was wearing mascara.

It stopped snowing overnight, and the second day’s ride was not optional. As soon as I started pedaling, I knew I was in trouble. The air going in my lungs seemed to be decreasing with each breath. I’d like to say it was altitude sickness—I was too newly arrived from sea level—but really I was out of shape with a terrible bike and no gloves, riding in the biting cold. I quickly fell behind the rest of the group, and the pity riders started showing up—guys who had no problem riding extra by doubling back to ride with me and bring up the rear.

“How you doing?” one asked as he pulled up next to me and slowed down to match my sluggish pace. I could tell the lilt in his voice was forced, like being friendly would somehow make up for my lack of athleticism.

I could feel myself getting more annoyed with every push of my foot. What was up with everyone else? With all these other girls? Did I miss the fitness test when I was out for my interview?

The gap between me and the next person ahead continued to grow until I could no longer see her. I felt vomit rising in my throat. I tried to swallow and hold it back—I didn’t want to throw up in front of the pity rider of the moment—but I finally had to stop my bike, lean over, and let it out. It became clear the only way I was going to go over Vail Pass was in a motorized vehicle.

“Alex needs to stop.”

“She can’t go any farther.”

“Derek, can you drive her to the end?”

I heard these statements floating above my head as if they were about somebody else. So relieved the torture ride was ending, I still wanted to shrink into oblivion with each declaration. And now I was going to be alone with Derek in the van? Looking like this? With no makeup, clothes that weren’t flattering, and dark circles under my eyes? Failing at any attempt to be outdoorsy and cool? So pathetic? Really?

And then once we were in the van, he had to be nice about it, to try to make me feel better. “I wanted an excuse to stop riding,” he said.

Still shivering, I thought I might disintegrate from embarrassment. I looked straight ahead out the windshield and tried to think of something witty to say. Nothing came to mind.

My discomfort was heightened by what had happened the night before. The staff sat in a large circle around the living room of the house where we were staying, going around and one by one answering a question to get to know each other. Many of us had arrived in the last month, and though I’d only been there a few weeks, after spending every minute with the staff in such an intense environment, I felt like we were building rapport quickly. But not so quickly that I was ready to share my biggest hurts with everyone at once.

It was my turn to answer the question, and within the first minute I felt my voice cracking. Within two minutes I couldn’t talk; the crying was getting in the way. I don’t remember what the question was or even my answer, really. I remember the ugly, snotty, messy sobbing that forced others to scramble to find me tissues and lean in to listen with concerned expressions. And that it was about my dad. I remember I was embarrassed by this sudden and unplanned show of vulnerability. It came on so quickly, which meant it was close to the surface. And there was so much snot. How was I supposed to clean it up with everyone looking at me?

I didn’t want to talk about my dad. I hated talking about him. And I was afraid the way it came out would make me look out of control, too broken myself, too vulnerable to help the kids we were there to help. And it was the only show of emotion of that level that night. It felt too exposed and too intense for what the sharing time was supposed to look like. I couldn’t talk and motioned with my hand to move on to the next person. I hoped she was as messed up as I was. I was disappointed to hear she wasn’t.

After everyone shared and the circle broke up, a few people approached me to ask if I was okay. I wanted to scream, “Of course I’m not okay. I’m a mess!” but I’d already made a scene. All of the years of holding it in, and it came out right here with an audience of fifteen. I wanted a chance to do it over, to come off presentable, collected.

Derek came up to me and tried to be nice. He remembers saying, “I had no idea. About your dad.” All I remember was thinking he was thoughtful and hoping I would become camouflaged by the sofa I was sitting on.

So, doubly embarrassed, I sat in the passenger seat of the van and tried to think how I could redeem my image in front of this very cool guy. I was thankful to have one-on-one time with him, but I could think of about a thousand different ways I would have liked it to come about. Ways that involved him initiating rather than responding to my crisis.

Ever since that football player in Olympia spoke, I’d had an image of a man who would love and take care of me. A man who was stable and kind and principled. All through college I’d prayed for God to send me someone to protect me. Someone to start a family with, to share in my new beginning. I knew Derek had that potential, but I didn’t want him to see these needy parts that were already seeping out, spilling in front of him in a big mess. I was still trying hard to hold it in.