When I was growing up, my father always stopped what he was doing and listened while I'd breathlessly fill him in on my day. For him, no subject was off-limits. When I was a lanky and awkward 13, Dad coached me on how to stand and walk like a lady. At 17 and madly in love, I sought his advice on pursuing a new student at school. "Keep the conversation neutral," he counseled. "And ask him about his car."
I followed his suggestions and gave him daily progress reports. Terry and I went steady for over a year, and soon Dad was joking, "I can tell you how to get a man; the hard part is getting rid of him."
By the time I graduated from college, I was ready to spread my wings. I got a job teaching special education at a school in Coachella, California, a desert town far from home. It was no dream job. The neighborhood was rough, and many of my students had troubled backgrounds. "Be careful," Dad warned me, concerned about my living alone. But I was 23, enthusiastic and naive, and needed to be on my own. "Don't worry," I reassured him.
One evening, I stayed late at school to rearrange my classroom. Finished, I found the gate locked. Everyone had gone home, stranding me. I had been so engrossed in my work that I hadn't noticed the time. I finally found a way to squeeze under a rear gate.
I retrieved my purse and walked toward my car. Eerie shadows fell across the schoolyard. Suddenly, I heard voices and saw at least eight high-school-age boys following me, wearing gang insignia. They began taunting me.
I quickened my pace and reached into my bag for my keys. My heart pounded. Frantically, I felt all over my handbag, but the key ring wasn't there! "Hey! Let's get the lady!" one shouted. I prayed silently. Suddenly, my fingers wrapped around a loose key in my purse. I didn't even know if it was for my car.
I jogged to my car, tried the key. It worked! I slid in and locked the door just as the teenagers surrounded the car, kicking and banging on it. Trembling, I drove away.
Later, we found my key ring on the ground by the gate. When I returned home, the phone was ringing. It was Dad. I didn't tell him about my ordeal. "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" he said. "I had an extra car key made and slipped it into your pocketbook -- just in case you ever need it."
Today, I keep that key and treasure it. I am reminded of all the wonderful things Dad has done for me. I still look to him for wisdom and reassurance. I marvel that his thoughtful gesture may have saved my life. I understand how a simple act of love can make extraordinary things happen.