Playing a game in the fellowship hall, meeting some of my future husband’s friends in a carefree setting, I agreed to join in on the activities. I had not met many any of them because I attended another church from across town.
Sitting in a circle on the floor, the dozen or so men and women were grabbing for the spoons after collecting four of the same suit cards.
Since it was a group game with one less spoon than the number of participants, the object was to try and not get eliminated, and the last person standing was the winner.
The competitive spirit in me kicked in literally, the challenge to win, end up with a spoon and collect cards was my main objective.
One of the ladies sitting across from me was the pianist, a committed Sunday school teacher and bible teacher for this church, and she and I soon locked feet in a dive for the last spoon during one of the rounds.
Lunging, she extended her arm, and I mine, we caught each other mid lunge, our arms locking together, causing us to topple.
We quickly used our free hand to make one last attempt at grabbing the spoon. Some of the others cheered and others simply moved away from the commotion.
Rolling onto the floor, my fingers held onto the aluminum utensil, and my feet spiraled upward, almost in slow motion toward the woman across from me.
My boot forced its way, slamming into her face, cutting her chin, the impact of boot and skin left the woman injured and she let go of the spoon.
The blood on her face confirmed it; I had just wounded one of my fiancés friends.
She stood and I dropped my spoon.
Running, blotting her face, she disappeared to the bathroom.
Eventually she rejoined the now somber group of people, sporting a wound of about 1 inch long, which would leave her with a scar, one I would go on to see every week at church, even now, some 20 years later.
I apologized, handing her the spoon she had wanted earlier in our game. Trying to redeem myself and add a bit of humor to very tense moment, I smiled, she did not.
I realized I had just made a lasting imprint on her face, a great first impression, one she will never forget, nor I.
Fighting for a spoon, the event must have appeared much like two women having a brawl; well one person did end up wounded and bleeding.
As they say, you only get one chance to make a good first impression, so if there’s a moral to this story, it is, “to always put your best foot forward,” because you never get a second chance to do it right the “first” time.
Just ask the pianist who sports the imprint of my boot on her chin; somehow I think she’d tend to agree!
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