
I don't remember meeting Donnie. As an active teenager in district events in the Church of the Nazarene in the 1980s, there were all these kids from different churches at events and over time you got to know them. That's how I met Donnie. We went to summer camp together, and I think, like many girls, I had a tad bit of a crush on him. I mean, who wouldn't? He was adorable, tremendously funny, and had a spiritual side of him that I wished would be shown by the boys in my youth group who were more interested in armpit farts than actually worshiping during the Sunday morning church service.
I never admitted my small teen crush to Donnie, although I often joked with him that I fell for him. Indeed I did. The camp tabernacle had a cement floor painted gray. I remember the ash color vividly. It was Thursday night of camp, my last camp before heading to college, and I was trying to make sure I said goodbye to everyone before service that evening because I knew Friday mornings were hectic and not conducive to departing sentiments. There had been a thunderstorm and rain had blown into the area in front of the pews. We were required to dress up for evening church at that time, and my dress shoes were not a good combo. As Donnie and I separated from a hug, I took a step back and forgot momentarily about the slick floor. . . until I landed at his feet. Evidently he had girls falling for him all the time, because by the time social media was invented and we reconnected, he had completely forgotten (or blocked) the incident from him memory.