A Love Like This

Recently I saw the video of Natasha Bedingfield’s song “Love Like This,” and it reminded me of an incident from high school. In the video, the singer, dramatizing “true love,” says she remembers a guy from high school, and she never found another “love like this.” After flirting with her perfect guy in the park, she climbs on the back of his motorcycle and wraps her arms around him. Off they ride into their happy life.

It’s a nice song, a happy song, subtly promoting monogamous relationships since in her mind there will never be another “love like this.” It was the motorcycle incident in the video that took me back to high school.

By Julie Stiegemeyer

In 1984, Bruce Springsteen released “Born in the USA,” an album I thought was so awesome that I just had to see Bruce in concert. My friend Fiona and I sat in the nosebleed seats of the Denver arena and rocked out with Bruce and the E Street Band. I still have vivid memories (albeit slightly dimmed with time) of Bruce singing the title track of the album. Fiona and I both bought white t-shirts with the American flag emblazoned on the front—the cover “Born in the USA,” art with Bruce’s tush in denim Levi’s. Bruce Springsteen isn’t exactly gorgeous, but he has a rugged charm about him that spoke to me—a fifteen-year-old American girl. The Bruce appeal stuck with me throughout high school.

As I was growing up, I was usually a good girl. I never (except for one rare occasion) needed a curfew, I hung out with the right crowd, I even started a Bible club in my public high school. Seriously. I was a good girl. That doesn’t mean I didn’t make my share of stupid choices, but most of the time, my life was pretty ordinary. In high school, my best friend Lori and I participated in a very active Lutheran youth group. We loved youth group. I stunk at the weekly summer volleyball games, but it was the after-game Bible studies that I lapped up like a thirsty animal. Lori and I stayed after everyone else had gone home, and we drilled the vicar on one question after another. Poor guy. He was just leading a youth group Bible study, but we needed answers!

One time, however, something else caught my eye on youth group nights. An older guy, maybe twenty or twenty-two years old, roared into the church parking lot on—yes, you guessed it—a motorcycle. I was already star-struck by the raw appeal of Bruce Springsteen, and now, here was a real Bruce attending a Lutheran youth group. It was love at first sight. This guy was cool. He didn’t talk much, he had a killer smile, and he rode a Harley. What could be better? But I was a good girl, a shy girl, and I didn’t have a chance with him. Or did I?

One summer, I went with the youth group on a camping trip in the Colorado Rockies. We sang songs around the campfire, went on hikes, and had Bible studies—normal youth group camping trip stuff. Best of all, my personal Bruce—Mr. Harley himself—was along on the camping trip.

The group was preparing dinner one night, and I was peeling and slicing carrots. The knife I was using was not only old, but it was also very dull. I ended up slicing not the carrot, but my finger. It was a deep cut, but who came to my rescue? You guessed it. Bruce wrapped up my finger with a gauze bandage, applying oh-so-gentle pressure on the wound. It was a tingly moment and easily the most memorable carrot incident of my life.

So, now you’re wondering one of two things: (1) Did that camping trip lead to a storybook romance? Or (2) Did that older guy take advantage of me, a sixteen-yearold girl? The answer to both questions is no. The finger slicing incident was as exciting as it got between the two of us. Off he rode on his Harley into the Rocky Mountain sunset and out of my life for good. The funniest part of the story, I think, is that I can’t even remember the name of this guy I idolized. He’s just Bruce to me.

I am sitting here now, a few feet away from my husband of almost eighteen years. He is reading a book while I write about my high school memories. Our dog sits happily on the floor. The laundry is spinning in the dryer. The wind chime is gently ringing in the breeze outside the window. And as I sit here, I can’t help but think back to the “Love Like This” lyrics. “You’re the only one who knows me, I love it when you hold me...I’ll never have a love like this.” God has placed my husband and me together, in this family, in this place, at this time, and I am thankful for that.

I’m also old enough and have seen enough of life to know that Natasha Bedingfield’s song reveals an idealized idea of a relationship between two people. Husbands and wives let each other down. Mothers and fathers let children down. We’re sinners. What else should we expect? And yet.There is always that “and yet”— hope that what we see is not all there is. In the atoning sacrifice of Jesus, we look beyond our failings, knowing that in Him we have forgiveness of sins, life, and salvation. And our Jesus will not disappoint. He will never fail or fall short.

It’s impossible to predict your future life. Will you marry? Who? a biker? a pastor? a deaconess? What opportunities along the way will seem like those fairy tale moments, but they actually never amount to anything? The good news, the best news—the only news we can cling to—is that God knows what is best for us. He knows what to give and what to withhold. He, who would not withhold the lavish gift of salvation in His only Son, will only give you what is best. And we’ll never find another love like that.

Mrs. Julie Stiegemeyer is a wife, mother, children’s book author, and former editorial empress of Higher Things Magazine. She lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and can be reached at juliestieg@gmail.com.