It was a bitterly cold November Saturday. A considerate patch of high pressure had left even grisly Manchester with clear blue skies and a sparkling frost. M got up early with his friends to breakfast in the warmth of the Hall of Residence dining room, while a few miles away S poked a warm toe out from under her duvet, waited a few seconds as it slowly began to freeze in the mouldy cold of a chronically damp student house and then tucked it back in, deciding to delay getting up til lunchtime. M set off to the library to indulge in several hours quiet companionship with his biology journals. His Masters nearing completion, he was finding it hard not to daydream about potential PhDs. He was mildly looking forward to a CathSoc Spanish-themed party being thrown by his friend in the pub opposite their Halls. It promised to be a lively but temperate party – after all, most of the attendees would be Catholics from the university chaplaincy or the 3 Catholic Halls of Residences.
S had a stinking cold. The prospect of a catechism class, followed by a student Mass and a violin recital given by her housemate did little to lighten her mood. Like so many of her peers, juggling the temptations of the wild and lively party scene of university life with the duties of, and desire to live, a Christian life left her feeling guilty most of the time. Her first year over, constant socialising was fast losing its appeal as friendships waned, parties became insipid and coursework assignments became more serious. Yo-yo-ing in and out of Church was making her realise she was being untrue to the two most important people in her life; God and her own self. So, no. S was definitely not looking forward to the CathSoc party and was busy concocting plausible excuses to get out of going.
God had other plans.
It was 8pm and the party was already going strong. The number of Spaniards that M’s friend had managed to unearth amongst the grey wastes of Manchester was really quite impressive. To get away from the loud music and even louder layers of shouted conversations M positioned himself at the door, bouncer-come-ticket inspector for new arrivals. S, meanwhile, worn down by the requests of no less than three independent girlfriends, finally caved and, snivelling through swollen glands, grabbed a packet of tissues on her way back from the aborted violin recital and set off for the party on foot. The first person she laid eyes on, as she came through the door was M. It wasn’t conscious, but the two, having seen each other often but never spoken, migrated towards each other. M was older, more mature. He dreamt of a single life married to a career in academia, preferably in the States. S was looking for anything but another relationship. She’d only just split up from her boyfriend a few days before and wanted time to think about what she wanted out of her life. She was only 19.
Hours slipped by as the two chatted. The hours turned into weeks, weeks into months. Differences in personality and opinion faded against the backdrop of a deep, shared Faith. M turned down a job in the States. S moved back to Manchester after graduating. They met each other’s families. Friendship blossomed and deepened, tinged with the excitement of early romance. Then came the honeymoon of a year-long engagement followed by a beautiful white wedding, their honeymoon proper and their first home. Years slipped by. Heartache touched them on more than one occasion. So did great joy.
Romance has deepened, love has grown and tiny little feet patter through the corridors of their home.
On a cold November day, 10 years ago two lives crossed. Two lives treading separate paths, joined hands and began carving a fresh new path together. Although it has been a whole decade, they still feel like they’re only just setting out. Two young students, whose eyes met across a crowded room of noisy Spanish partygoers on a cold November evening, still whittling out their path together while God hands out the tools.
sophiahc 