Chapter 2: The Phone Call from the Barn

Chapter 2: The Phone Call from the Barn

Calvin: The Phone Call

I was in the barn milking cows when I finally decided I was going to call Patience Murray.

A boy has plenty of time to think on the farm, doing chores, with the smell of cows and hay and North Dakota dust. I had been thinking about this girl from Beulah for so long that thinking was no longer enough. At some point, a boy either has to do something or admit he is never going to, and that evening, still more farm boy than young man, I had reached that point.

I did not have much of a plan. I had her phone number, a nervous stomach, and the rough idea that I wanted to ask her to go with me to my high school play. Back then, calling a girl meant putting yourself out there. There was no caller ID, no text messaging, no harmless little sentence you could float first to see whether she responded with warmth, silence, or something in between; there was no graceful way to retreat if the answer did not come back the way you hoped. There was a single telephone in the house, and if you dialed the number, someone in her family was going to answer. Possibly her mother. Possibly Patience. Possibly her father, which was the possibility I liked least.

I finished what I was doing and ran the hundred yards or so to the house, rehearsing what I was going to say as I went. I was trying to convince myself that this was not such a big deal. It was just a phone call. It was just a school play. It was just a girl.

Except she was not “just a girl” to me.

I was not nearly as confident as I may have looked; underneath I carried a deep uncertainty about whether I was really worth choosing. A boy who has been teased or criticized enough often learns to act braver than he feels. I wanted Patience to notice me, but I was not at all sure that if she really did, she would find someone worth saying yes to.

Still, I picked up the phone, dialed the number, and somewhere in Beulah, the phone rang.

Patience: The Ask

I can’t say that I remember a lot of interaction with Calvin prior to one evening when the phone rang and he asked if I’d like to go to a school play with him. I don’t even remember how that felt, but it was the first boy who ever asked me on a real date, which had to feel some mix of exciting and scary.

What I do remember about that first phone call is that my yes was conditional. I knew instantly this required approval from my dad, so my Yes was contingent on his response, and I wasn’t sure what his response would be. I was seventeen and the only child of older than average parents. I knew I was the apple of their eyes and protecting me was their instinct. On the flip side, I was compliant and had proven myself responsible and trustworthy. The flip side won the day and I got a Yes from my dad.

At Calvin’s house, it was a different conversation entirely.

Calvin: The First Date

The night of the date, we were sitting around the dinner table on the farm when I announced that I had a date. I had not asked permission or mentioned anything ahead of time. I simply dropped it into the middle of supper as though boys in our family announced dates every day.

My mother asked, “With who?”

“With Patience Murray,” I said.

Without hesitating, she said, “Do you want the car?”

That drew a dubious reaction from my dad and brothers because the family car was simply not casually offered to any of us boys. I do not know whether my mother had some instinct about Patience or whether she remembered the girl she had once named as a possibility, but her response was immediate: she offered me the car.

For an immature sixteen-year-old boy, that felt like a remarkable act of grace.

I drove to Beulah to pick her up; I was probably early. I remember being nervous in her parents’ living room. I wanted to appear confident, but I was very aware that I was in her world now. Patience seemed calm to me. She had a steadiness I admired right away. She came from a home that felt more polished than mine, but she was not showy. She had style, but it did not feel like she was trying to impress anyone. She had a way of carrying herself that suggested she knew who she was better than I knew who I was. I noticed all of that, and I also noticed that I liked being near her.

Patience: The School Play

Some events you remember vividly; other events you struggle to discern whether you have an original memory or whether you have built one from looking at a photo or listening to someone tell the story over and over. We have told this story frequently, but only a few details seem to be original memories for me.

I don’t remember Calvin arriving at my parent’s house to pick me up, but he probably was early and I probably wasn’t quite ready so he had to wait and talk to my dad. I was good with that (it would become a pattern). I don’t remember anything about what I wore, or even what he wore with the exception that I noticed he wore white athletic socks. White socks were not exactly a fashion statement; they stuck out enough that I noticed—and remembered. I do not recall what the play was about, but I think it was a collection of one-act plays rather than a single storyline. I remember sitting on the uncomfortable gray concrete bleachers in the Zap school gym.

But I was watching him. Was he fun? Was he safe? Was he respectful? Would I want to do this again? A first date carries questions that no one says out loud. Mine were mostly about whether I could trust him. His were mostly about whether I would like him.

Calvin: The Drive Home

On the way to the play, we took the highway. On the way home, in the dark, I took the windy gravel back road without offering any explanation. I had a reason, though not a romantic one. A buddy had told me one of my headlights was burned out, and I was afraid of getting a ticket if I drove on the highway.

Patience did not know about the headlight, and it did not occur to me to tell her. What she knew was that she was on a first date with a boy she did not know very well, and instead of going home by the main highway, we were driving in the dark on a rural gravel road with plenty of places where a young couple could pull off and “park” unseen for hours. She was nervous. I was thinking about the headlight, the road, and the girl sitting beside me. She was reading the situation through a double lens: trying to enjoy herself while also paying attention to whether she was safe.

Then there was the bench seat.

Patience: The First Compromise

I remember feeling nervous on the ride home because I was not sure of his intentions. I also remember the front seat dilemma: his parents’ car had a big bench seat with seat belts for three. He drove, which left me the choice of sitting in the middle spot right next to him—literally our arms would be touching!—or sitting in the far-right spot over against the passenger side door. Neither felt appropriate on this first date, so I awkwardly sat halfway in the middle of the two, which meant sitting on top of the protruding seat belt buckle. I chose emotional comfort over physical comfort; it seemed like the right compromise. He never noticed the seatbelt buckle at all.

I was definitely relieved when we drove past the last feasible side road (aka “parking” spot) and pulled onto the highway into town. Like a complete gentleman, he took me straight home, walked me to my door, and said goodbye. It was a good move—anything more assertive on the first date may not have gotten him a second.

But the date was fun. We both had a good time. So it was not hard to say yes again.

It Starts with A Conversation

Early conversations matter far more than we imagine. In the beginning, you are trying to impress one another. You are on your best behavior while still trying to be true to yourself. You are hoping and wondering, revealing and holding back, speaking and interpreting all at once. But if there is a second date, and a third, and a fourth, then something more begins to happen. A pattern emerges, and that pattern becomes the new normal of how you interact with each other. The first conversation can be figuratively, and to some degree literally, the beginning of a lifelong conversation.

Looking back, we can see that our first conversation was the beginning of more than an evening out. Without knowing it, we had started laying the foundation of friendship. And that is often where marriage begins—in a conversation that makes you hope for another one.

More Than Just Bowling

Our second date was bowling, which does not sound impressive until you recognize how often important things begin in unimpressive places. There were fluorescent lights, rental shoes, and plastic seats bolted to the floor. But what happened there mattered far more than the score. We talked while lacing up our shoes. We chatted between frames. We laughed at gutter balls. We commented on other people’s technique as if we knew what we were doing. We talked on the drive home.

What was really happening that night was not bowling; it was friendship. We were discovering each other one sentence at a time. We were learning whether this relationship had enough life in it to keep moving forward, and whether we actually enjoyed each other in the ordinary, unimpressive moments.

This is easy for new couples to misunderstand: they think romance is the main thing happening, when in truth something even more foundational is (hopefully) being built: they are becoming friends. They are learning each other’s humor, pace, and style. They are discovering how the other person makes decisions and how they respond under a little pressure; they notice what makes them laugh, what makes them hesitate, and if they tolerate silence. They are learning whether they actually enjoy one another’s company.

Friendship matters at this stage because romance without friendship often becomes fragile. It can feel exciting for a time, but it does not have much substance beneath it when life turns ordinary. Friendship, on the other hand, creates depth; it gives romance a safe place to live.

Calvin: Becoming Friends

Most of our early dates were not remarkable by any standard except ours. This was rural North Dakota. There were not many places to go, and we did not have much money anyway. We went bowling. We cruised Main Street. We went to school events, or  to church on Sunday nights. We played pool and watched television at her parents’ house. We sat in the car and talked.

Mostly, we talked.

I was very attracted to Patience, but attraction was not enough to explain what was happening. There was something about her—I wanted to hear what she thought, I wanted to know what she cared about. I just knew that when I was with her, I wanted the conversation to continue.

Some conversations make you perform. Some make you work too hard just to keep them alive. Some leave you feeling smaller when they are over. But some conversations have life in them. They are not perfect—they may even be awkward. But they carry warmth, interest, and a sense that something is growing. That’s what I felt with Patience. She was not trying to impress me. But she was present. She listened and she answered honestly. When she did speak, I wanted to hear what she had to say.

I was not just trying to win a girl. I was beginning to discover a friend.

Patience: He Drew Me Out

I remember those conversations too. I was a woman of few words even then, and he was already a man of many; that hasn’t changed. But even though he did more of the talking on our dates, I did not feel talked over or left out of the conversation. Sometimes talkative people fill the room and leave no space for anyone else. That wasn’t us: in fact, I learned to talk more because he was curious about me and asked me questions nobody had ever asked before.

He even had the courage to ask me how I felt about certain things, which was territory I approached gingerly. Like I said, I don’t think I was a typical girl; one piece of evidence is that I didn’t swim in feelings the way I perceived most girls to. If anything, I avoided them. My parents inadvertently taught me avoidance by not having any difficult or emotional conversations in front of me; I strongly suspect they didn’t have many behind my back either. That told me feelings were scary and best kept at arm’s length whenever possible.

But even a stoic introvert has a few of them hiding inside, and Calvin had a knack for gently drawing them out of me, making it safe for me to share what was inside me when I barely had words for it. He behaved like a true friend, and before long he became my best friend.

Calvin: I Needed Safety Too

One of the key things we had in spades early in our relationship was a safe space to be honest. We spent a lot of time talking, in person and on the phone, discovering what it was like to share who we really were with each other. Becoming best friends, especially when you are that young, is really about openness, honesty and safety. Safety is crucial: if I don’t feel safe enough to be honest about who I am, what I think and feel, and how I feel about you, then the relationship may continue on some level, but it will not go deep. Honesty sometimes requires taking a risk.

We took it slowly because we were young, but I suspect most people overestimate their ability to control the pace of their relationship. There are too many emotions, too many hopes and fears. People often say, “We’re going to take it slow,” but the deeper question is less about pace and more about whether the relationship is becoming safe enough for honesty. When you say what you really mean, is that meaning handled well? Can the other person reflect it back without punishing you for it?

I tend to process my developing thoughts and feelings out loud, and sometimes I want to reach out and grab those words back from the air. But with Patience, I always felt like it was safe for me to ask questions, safe to say what I actually thought, and safe for me to grapple for understanding. Our hearts were learning that this was a safe relationship in which to let ourselves be known.

Patience: Our Music Connection

We often went to Calvin’s church on Sunday nights, and that is where music began to become part of “us.” He could sing. I could play piano. In a small-town church, you don’t have to be polished to be invited to share your songs with the congregation. We practiced at my parents’ house and performed at his family’s church. Working on music together felt like another flavor of conversation.

We had no clue that we would spend years learning songs and leading worship together, joining churches and small groups, standing up front helping congregations sing; that making music would become one of the steady rhythms of our marriage and ministry. Back then it was simpler: a boy who could sing, a girl who could play. Shared faith and shared music became another way to be together and connect.

Being a Friend is a Choice

Friendship is not just a pleasant benefit of a relationship. It is the human soil in which covenant later grows.

It isn’t always easy. Sometimes friendship feels organic and fun: it flows naturally because you enjoy the same moment or conversation, the same little piece of life. But other times friendship is much more intentional; it becomes a choice, even a skill. It looks like the willingness to sit down and listen when you’re busy, or attend an event you don’t prefer when there is something else you would rather be doing. We have learned that being each other’s friend pays enormous dividends, so we continue to choose to make time for those conversations.

We did not know, when Calvin ran from the barn to the house, that a simple phone call would become part of a much larger story. We did not know that one conversation would lead to another, and another after that, until conversation became one of the ways we built a life. We could not imagine how we would raise children together, make music together, face sickness together, and grow old enough to sit together on the porch, remembering the two young people who had no idea what God had set in motion.

Marriage did not begin at the altar. It began with a conversation.

Reflections for Couples

We are convinced that one of the most important commitments a couple can make is to protect the friendship at the center of the marriage. When friendship is damaged or missing, couples begin feeling more like efficient roommates than loyal teammates. One of the saddest things we hear in counseling is, “We feel more like roommates than spouses.” That is not the kind of marriage you signed up for. That shift never happens overnight; it happens through dozens of small choices: conversations become shorter, affection becomes less frequent, shared activities quietly disappear. Companionship slowly turns into coexistence.

But the good news is that friendship can be built, protected, and rebuilt through the same ordinary choices. Friendship is nurtured when a husband and wife keep making room to enjoy each other, to notice each other, and to share ordinary moments instead of only managing responsibilities side by side.

If you and your spouse are already friends, keep investing the way you would in any friendship you deeply value. If you have drifted, begin again. It is never too late to rebuild friendship. In fact, some marriages do not need a dramatic breakthrough nearly as much as they need a basic return to companionship.

Sometimes it helps to ask curious questions like these:

·       What activities make you feel most connected to me?

·       What do you enjoy doing together with me?

·       What have we stopped doing together that we once enjoyed?

·       How can we create more time to enjoy each other again?

·       How can I be a better friend?

Remember: if you really want to have a friend, start by being a friend.