Leap of Love

It should have been the perfect date for Ryan and me—a late summer hike through majestic Silver Falls State Park, the largest in Oregon. The scene around us was out of a nature film: a thick forest of dark, moss-covered evergreens, dewy, drooping ferns, and fluorescent clovers lining the trail. We strolled alongside a gurgling creek, walking my brother’s dog, Little Pig, who stopped now and again to sniff a random flower or patch of grass. A romantic, serene moment. Except Ryan just had to bring up what was bothering him. What was bothering me too. “All I’m saying is it doesn’t feel like you’re that into me sometimes,” Ryan said.

I sighed. “Can we change the subject?” Ryan just stared at the ground. Little Pig caught up to us and rubbed up against Ryan’s leg. It was surprising how well he’d taken to Ryan, showering him with affection. I, on the other hand, couldn’t be so bold. I did love Ryan—but I hadn’t been able to show it. Commitment. The word scared me. I didn’t think I could commit to anyone. Was it unfair to lead Ryan on?

Walking that trail, I felt like we were headed toward a breakup. I pulled a couple paces ahead. It had been the same story since I was sixteen. That was when my parents announced they were going to take a three-month “trial separation.” I’d thought my parents had a good marriage and loved each other, but within two weeks, they both had lawyers and couldn’t have a conversation that didn’t become a screaming match. They attacked one another and accused me of taking sides. If I couldn’t trust my parents’ love, then whose love could I trust? The one thing I hung on to was my trust in God. Of that I was pretty certain. But to take that leap and trust another human being with my deepest desires frightened me. Every time I got close to a guy, I pulled away.

Even sweet Ryan. When I met him in college, I took it slow. I came up with different degrees of relationships—“serious friending” came before “casual dating,” which progressed into “serious dating”—before I was willing to be called his girlfriend. Ryan put up with my silliness over the last two years, but I knew it was hard for him whenever he said he loved me and I couldn’t say it back.

A walk through the park with Little Pig could lighten the mood, I thought. But now I’d hurt Ryan again. God, I prayed silently, help me not feel this fear. Help me learn how to love him. To trust. Silently, Ryan and I followed the trail as it dipped be­neath the thirty-foot-high bridge for the Silver Falls Highway that cuts through the park. We came out on the other side and I looked back for Little Pig. The trail was empty. “Did you see where he went?” I asked. Ryan shook his head.

“Little Pig!” he called. I echoed him. But Little Pig didn’t come running. “Maybe he chased a squirrel or something,” Ryan said. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”