Thirteen wasn’t my best year. I was heavily into perms. Addicted to hairspray. Hungover on blue eyeshadow. I slathered on baby oil when I went to the beach, where I read the entire Sweet Valley High series in one sitting. My double-layered shirts always matched my double-layered socks, which slouched above my cool white Reebok hightops.
(This is me at a family reunion in 1988 — my hair is so big it blends into the background. That’s my sister, Alexis, next to me. I could have cropped her out, but I didn’t want to be alone in my back-in-the-day humiliation)
But I did do one great thing when I was 13: I started praying for my future husband. A Sunday school teacher suggested it, and I thought it was a great idea. I didn’t know who he was or where he was, but I determined to begin praying for him.
What I didn’t know is my future husband was 19 at that time. He had just started college. He had grown up as a pastor’s kid, so he knew the Lord. But he hadn’t really been living like he knew Him. But Dave says he remembers being 19 and standing on his college campus and thinking, “I need to make a choice. Either I’m going to serve Jesus or I’m not. I’m tired of sitting on the fence.”
Thankfully, he chose to serve Jesus.
Would he have made that choice had I not prayed for him? I don’t know. What I do know is that God impressed upon my teenage heart to pray for my future spouse, and I did.
Dave and I didn’t meet for another six years. But I was praying for him. And he continued to make some pretty great decisions…like meeting me. We have been married now for 17 years. Dave is one of the godliest people I know. He is a great father and husband and friend.
I take all the credit for that.
Well, me and Jesus.
And big hair.
