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  When you’re falling for a girl, you want to know every detail about her—and I couldn’t get enough of Kelly’s story. The eldest of two girls in her family, she was born in Nacogdoches, Texas, before moving to Tyler, the Rose Capital of the World. Tyler is possibly the closest thing to a Southern city, the kind I was used to, that you might find in the Lone Star State. Beautiful azaleas grace the brick-paved streets of this town, which was built mostly from what most people refer to as “old oil money.” Kelly had been quiet and shy but smart as a whip. If a fellow student was stumped by a question in class, she’d be the kid who knew the answer but wouldn’t let on that she did.

  Kelly loved art, and though she never studied it formally, she enjoyed creating beautiful things. Not long after we met, she showed me this massive art portfolio—filled with gorgeous paintings, sketches, and art pieces assembled using fabric and tissue paper—that she’d put together throughout high school. It was in summers, when Kelly’s family drove down to Kerrville, a beautiful town in the Hill Country where they vacationed, that they took I-35 through Waco. From the back seat of their Suburban, she could see the gold dome rising over Baylor University and she would always think, One day I’m going to that school. Like me, she’d grown up Baptist, so the idea of attending a school with Christian roots appealed to her. And coincidentally, we had a friend in common: Kyle, the cool college senior I’d been introduced to on my first visit to Baylor. Kyle was also from Tyler, and after Baylor, he’d gone on to pastor at a Waco church called University Baptist, which Kelly ended up attending.

  Back when Kelly was in high school, her mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. In the spring of 1993, after months of chemo, she finally kicked cancer’s ass, but there was carnage from the battle. For years, Kelly’s parents had struggled to keep their relationship right side up, and the cancer had made that tougher. Just before Kelly’s fifteenth birthday, her parents split. Kelly, then a high school sophomore, had felt punched in the gut. Neighbors in a small town know pretty much everything about one another, and for a girl as private as Kelly, just being aware that people around town were talking about her family was incredibly painful. Eventually, Kelly’s dad moved on and remarried, while Kelly and her sister stayed with their mom. It would take years for healing to even begin for their little split family of four, and even more for it to fully occur. But occur it did. And as I watched from a front-row seat as they hashed through pain and disappointment, I found myself amazed at what love, forgiveness, and humility can do.

  The Thanksgiving after we met, as Kelly was preparing to travel to London to visit a friend who was studying there and I was gearing up to drive to Georgia, I said, “Why don’t I drive up and stay at your mom’s place to cut my trip in two?” Admittedly, I knew it would be smart to make a good impression on her family, and her mother, whom I had met previously in Waco, had been the first to suggest it anyway. Kelly agreed even though she’d already be across the pond by the time I got there. So on my cross-country drive from Waco to Georgia, I stopped in Tyler and met her mother, Debbie, and her sister, Johnna. We hit it off right away. I saw at once where Kelly’s graciousness comes from: that lady fed me from sunup to dusk. Yes, food speaks to me. She also put me up in Kelly’s bedroom. I remember looking around at her photos, thinking, Who are these other guys in here? I knew one thing: if there were any dudes in the background, I intended to be the last man standing. At least her mom and sister already seemed to be signing off on me.

  The distance and time over Thanksgiving break definitely did the trick—we couldn’t wait to reconnect. When we both got back to Waco, we officially became a couple.

  It’s funny how we’re so often drawn to what we wish we had more of. Kelly tells me she was most attracted to my goofiness, spontaneity, and love of adventure and music. She always says I bring the fun. I was drawn to her smarts, sincerity, discipline, and desire for a true and honest connection. She was more organized than I will ever be. She was also definitely on the shy side, more introverted than I am by a mile. But even before I got to know her, I could tell there was a lot of depth and wisdom beneath the surface.

  When it came to her religious beliefs, Kelly was also more moderate than me. In one of our early conversations, Kelly floated the idea that “becoming a Christian” didn’t necessarily happen with one magical prayer, said at the end of an incredibly awkward and sometimes lonely walk down a long aisle to the front of a sanctuary filled with people who had already said the prayer. “Maybe becoming a Christian,” she said to me, “is more of a journey. Maybe it’s a lifelong quest of figuring out God, love, your purpose, God’s purpose, in long and winding strolls through the many places life will take you.”

  Not a chance, I thought. That one prayer of salvation was everything. You have to have the prayer. Without it, pack your bags. Hell awaits. So Kelly and I had a nice argument over that one. And by argument, I don’t mean two people debating their positions until they’re blue in the face. In our case, arguing looked more like a dumb guy who thought he knew it all, doing his best to convince a very smart girl she was dead wrong. But the smart girl wasn’t really into arguing. She was more of a sit-there-confidently kind of arguer, just patiently listening and then shooting an arrow in the form of a question that causes you to . . . wait for it . . . think! I clearly liked this girl, because despite what to me seemed like heresy, we kept on dating. And, well, she didn’t run away either. But almost just as important as our relationship, consider the door of my own one-sided, narrow, and even dogmatic ways of looking at faith officially cracked open.

  Sometime later Kelly told me she’d even sort of had her eye on me even before she arrived on Baylor’s campus. I know . . . what??? Back home as a high school senior, she and a few other girls were hanging out at a friend’s house, and that friend’s sister was already at Baylor. They all noticed a picture on the fridge.

  “Hey, who are these guys?” someone asked.

  “One of them is Mark, my sister’s new boyfriend,” said her friend.

  “And who’s the other guy?”

  “That’s Mark’s friend Clint. He volunteers with the youth ministry Mark runs.”

  “Well, that Clint guy’s kinda cute,” Kelly had said, smiling. “Let’s make sure we meet him when we get to Baylor.” And boy, did she.

  Kelly and I dated for ten months before I proposed. It certainly wasn’t unusual for a couple to get engaged before graduation, but I wanted my proposal to be remembered. So let’s just say it began with me hiding in the bushes outside her house while my friend Scott read a poem I had written as a sort of invitation to a surprising day of adventure. I then took her to the zoo, of all places, and then it continued with her digging up, out of the ground, an outfit I’d bought for her to wear that evening. The proposal culminated with us driving down to Salado, Texas, just outside of Waco, where I’d had a friend bury the ring. I dug it up and presented it to Kelly as I popped the question. She said yes (well, technically she said okay . . . eh . . . close enough), even with my goofball proposal. And by the way, I’d committed to the digging theme as a way of saying, “Yeah, this whole relationship thing is going to be work, but if we dig together, we’re going to make it.” I probably could’ve just said all that and left the shovels out, but whatever.

  Right after Kelly said yes, we both called our moms. I’d of course already asked Kelly’s parents for permission to marry their daughter, and they’d approved. But while they and my own parents knew I was planning to propose, they didn’t know when. So when Kelly and I dialed up our folks and excitedly told them we were engaged, it was a welcome surprise. We made a plan to tie the knot once we’d both graduated.

  It’s amazing how, during a lifetime, thousands of ordinary moments come and go without much notice. But then out of nowhere, an experience, a person, a turn in the road just grabs you by the collar. From then on, time is divided by all that came before that moment, and all that follows. Kelly, for me, is that marker.

  * * *
/>   My time at Baylor brought many good things, but academic success wasn’t one of them. Yet there was one activity I excelled at during my tenure there: running. Back when I was around eight and visiting my family at the Roost, I’d beg my uncles to let me go out jogging with them. “Sorry, bud,” they’d say, “you’re too young, it’s too hot outside, and we’re going too far.” I could still see them disappearing down the road without me, when, during my freshman year at Baylor, I began lacing up and running up to five miles at a time. I loved it, but never took it too seriously. Until the evening when a couple of my buddies, Mark and Ritchey, threw out an idea.

  “Let’s train for a marathon!” said Mark. We’d just stretched, and after a few swigs of water, taken off into the night for a run around Waco.

  “Wait, what?” I said. “Are you serious? Isn’t that like, twenty-six miles?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Let’s do it.” Ritchey, my best friend and roommate, was more reluctant. But, as it would turn out, his support would get me across the finish line as he ran miles with me, both in training and in the race.

  That night, we ran farther than I ever had before, or even thought I could—eight miles—and I was hooked. For the next several months, I trained. I ran laps around campus and around town. I went from eating ice cream and pizza to a steady diet of chicken and potatoes. I used the money I earned delivering pizza to buy some running shoes and shorts. And as I ran, all my concerns seemed to melt away. My head cleared and worries dissolved. I wasn’t breaking any records, but I was breathing my way through each step, racking up mile after mile. Childhood doubts, adolescent fears, and adult concerns all became less painful as, during what would become a theme of my life, I pushed myself beyond what I thought was possible. The following February, when I rounded the corner into the marathon’s final mile and crossed the finish line, I collapsed on the street, feet swollen, out of breath, tired beyond reason—and absolutely sure I was going to run that race again.

  As a junior, I did. By then, and on into my senior year, I had also started to think more seriously about my future. Academically, I’d barely scraped through Baylor with a GPA just north of a D and nearly $50,000 in student loans. Ouch. I still wanted to pursue music, but I figured that a full-time job with the youth ministry I’d been volunteering for, which had an opening in St. Petersburg, Florida, would make a great starting gig. It was an opportunity that would allow me to begin paying down my debt, and I was interested in seeing if the ministry was the path I was meant for.

  All I had to do was complete my degree, which I was on track to do in the next few months. My final semester would be in the fall of 2000, the start of Kelly’s senior year. Our plan was for me to earn my degree in December 2000 and take the job in Florida while she finished up in May. Then in July, we’d get married.

  Of course, this timeline hinged on me passing all my remaining classes. I was a little worried about one senior-level business management class, but otherwise, I was packing my bags. My professor, though stern, seemed like a nice and fair man. “There are only a few requirements for passing my class,” he told us on day one. “Pass all three tests and complete one assignment, which is due at the end of the semester.” Easy enough.

  Test one rolled around. I hadn’t studied. I’d like to offer the disclaimer that when I was a kid, the basic understanding between my mom and me was pretty simple. I’d crawl home with another D+, and she’d say, “Honey, don’t worry about it! You know I had to repeat the fifth grade because I couldn’t understand math. Do your best.” She meant well. What can I say . . . we were all just surviving back then.

  Anyway, I took the first test, praying for a miracle. My professor had a funny way of revealing our grades. He’d use an overhead projector and cast our scores up on the wall. He wouldn’t use names, just the scores. The first score was at the top; that one was important since he graded on a curve. All the other scores would be listed in descending order beneath the first. I sat in the front row, which was about the only thing I did right in that class. Standing near to me, the teacher turned on his projector to reveal this:

  98

  96

  92

  90

  84

  83

  82

  81

  81

  75

  68

  .

  .

  .

  24

  Crap.

  I immediately knew which score was mine. After class, I marched straight to the professor’s office. “Excuse me, sir,” I said in my most respectful tone. “Can we please talk?”

  “Sure, come on in,” he said, motioning for me to take a seat.

  “Well, I’ve done the math,” I began slowly, “and with only two remaining tests, there’s literally no way for me to pass your class.”

  “Let me see here,” he said, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk and fishing out one. “Oh, yes. You must be Clint Harp. I’m guessing that wasn’t your best effort.”

  “No, sir,” I said. “It wasn’t.”

  “Well, son,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  This wasn’t the first time I’d had a conversation like this. The year before, my finance professor had told me that my chances of passing were about as good as those of a—and I quote—“one-legged man in an ass-kicking competition.” Message received. In that case, I’d eked out a D. But this class was different. My grade on that first test could have literally been the difference between a diploma in my hand and an extended career as a Baylor student. I’m sure Kelly would’ve found that attractive. Besides, I’d already nailed down the Florida gig. I had a job waiting. I was also an eternal optimist, incredibly confident that I could talk my way out of just about anything, so I tackled the situation head on.

  “I’m so sorry,” I told him. “I’m just embarrassed, and I feel awful.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said, laying the paper on his desk and staring at me.

  “The thing is,” I continued, “I already have this job in Florida, and it starts right after I gradu— Well, if I graduate. You know what I’m saying.”

  “Sounds like one heck of a predicament,” he said, no trace of give in his voice.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” I said. “If I don’t pass your class, I’m in trouble. Please. I’ll do anything.” I was creeping into the early stages of hyperventilation.

  The professor took off his reading glasses, folded them on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and thought for a moment.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said finally. “You’ve got two more tests and a homework assignment. Pass both tests and get a better score on the third than the second, plus do the one homework assignment, and I’ll pass you.”

  “Oh my goodness, sir, thank you!” I said, rising to shake his hand. “Thank you so much! I won’t let you down.”

  The second test rolled around. I studied a bit and was pumped when I managed to earn a passing score of 60. How sad. For the next and final test, I put in a decent amount of study time. I’m going to really impress him, I kept telling myself. In class, I held my breath as he flashed the final scores up on the wall. I’d earned a 61. I’d passed—or so I thought.

  Walking home that day, I felt I could finally exhale. A 61? Not the greatest show on earth, but it’s enough to get me to the next step on my journey with Kelly. I got to my apartment and was excited to call Kelly and let her know the good news, but that’s when I spotted a note my roommate had left for me by the phone.

  “Hey, Clint,” it read, “call your guidance counselor.”

  She must want to congratulate me on finishing, I thought. I dialed the number.

  “Hi, this is Clint!” I said enthusiastically. “You called?”

  “Yes, Clint,” she said. “So, your business management class. Did you know you failed it?”

  Big gulp.

  “Um, I mean, no,” I stuttered. “I didn’t.”

  By this time, two things w
ere definite. First, with the graduation ceremony just days away, my parents were already on the highway heading to Waco. And second, my job was starting in exactly three weeks. With my blood pressure through the ceiling, I hightailed it to my professor’s office.

  “I just got a call from my counselor,” I told him. “She said you failed me?”

  “Um, let’s see.” He rifled through some papers and eyeballed one. “Clint Harp?” he said. I nodded. “Your test scores don’t add up, son. And you didn’t do the homework assignment, either.” Whoops. “Yes, you failed. That’s all there is to it.”

  In my heart, I knew I had not yet held up my end of the deal, especially since I had totally disregarded the one homework assignment, but I wasn’t ready to accept defeat. I appealed to him to pass me now and promised to finish the work that was still due. “And I know there’s the homework thing,” I said, “but, I mean, this is just so hard.”

  Wrong choice of words.

  “Clint, let me tell you what hard is,” he shot back. “Surviving cancer is hard. And that’s exactly what my wife and I once did. That’s hard. You just didn’t study.”

  “Yes, sir, I hear you, but you did say that if I—”

  “Clint, you are an example of what I don’t like about being a teacher,” he cut in. “Get out of here and I’ll let you know.”

  I leapt out of my seat, thanking him profusely as I bowed out of the doorway. I made a beeline straight to the campus chapel in the Tidwell Bible Building. I sat on a pew and whispered, “Lord, I’m not asking you to do magic here and make me pass. I’m just asking that you’ll help me be okay with whatever’s ahead.”

  As soon as I got home, the phone rang. It was my guidance counselor. “Clint, you passed the class,” she said. “But one last thing—your professor wanted me to give you this message: ‘Do your homework.’ ”

  The next afternoon, still filled with relief, I slipped a manila envelope under my professor’s door. It contained a handwritten note of gratitude and my completed final assignment. A few days later, with my family seated in the stands, I marched across the stage and received my diploma. Phew.