I think not. The crossing of our paths was nothing less than Divine Providence.
For those unfamiliar with 4-H fairs, let me explain. Club members submit all manner of things to be judged — tomatoes they’ve grown, quilts they’ve stitched, pies they’ve baked, livestock they’ve raised. After ribbons are awarded for first, second, and third place, the goods are displayed in tents, where visitors may feast their eyes on the county’s best.
No one expects to bump into the man of their dreams at a 4-H fair, so I dressed accordingly, — sleeveless Ban-Lon shell, wheat-colored Wrangler jeans, and soft kiltie loafers. The only adornments: my class ring, a Beloved watch with an unusual gold mesh band, and a tiny cross on a delicate chain around my neck.
As twilight fell and the lights came on in the tents, I wandered over to the cow pen to admire a pretty little calf named Daisy. Unbeknownst to me, two young men prowled the grounds. In the spirit of the fair, they had unofficially appointed themselves judges. Circling the tents twice, they feasted their eyes on “the goods.”
Before “awarding the blue ribbon,” one of the young men decided to take a closer look. On the pretext of inspecting the calf, he casually strolled up to the cow pen. He didn’t so much as blink or blush when I caught him looking directly at me.
I curtly gave him the most indignantly icy glare I could muster on such a hot, steamy night. Then I turned a cold shoulder and walked away. I joined my girlfriend at the rabbit hutches and told her of the boldness of the guy at the cow pen. I asked what she thought of his behavior.
My friend gazed across the tent to give the guy the once-over. He seemed harmless enough — clean-shaven, hair impeccably styled. He wore a plain polo shirt, wheat-colored Wrangler jeans and soft suede and canvas loafers, sans socks. His only accessories: a class ring and a Bulova watch with an unusual band. Barely visible beneath his shirt was the chain that held a St. Christopher’s medal.
My girlfriend’s final assessment: “He’s cute.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Yes,” I agreed. “And, he is still staring at me.”
Then I made a decision that would change both our lives forever. I returned to the cow pen. I can’t really say why, except that I was inexplicably drawn to do so. He immediately made a humorous remark about my apparent fondness for the calf. Of course, we both knew “Daisy” was a ruse. Still, we engaged in a rather banal conversation about the calf’s finer attributes.
Finally, he introduced himself as Bob Reinhardt and asked my name.
We spent the next twenty minutes leaning against the cow pen, discussing a variety of topics. We discovered we were big movie buffs, avid readers, and fans of “The Doors,” yet harbored a serious appreciation for classical music. And we both loved the theater, especially acting, at which we each had an opportunity to try our hand. That we were dressed in a similar fashion did not escape our attention.
“Would you like to go out sometime? See a movie?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
A day and time were agreed upon. I gave him my phone number, address, and directions to my family’s home in Little Falls.
The time of reckoning had arrived. I had to tell him the truth — a truth that sometimes scared guys off.
I took a deep breath, swallowed hard around the lump of trepidation in my throat and said, “When you pull into the driveway, don’t be surprised if you see a police car. My dad is Lieutenant Vanderberg of L.F.P.D.”
A strange look passed over Bob Reinhardt’s face. “That might be a problem,” he said.
Oh, great! I thought. This seemingly nice guy, who reads Dumas and listens to Rossini, is actually a criminal, a criminal with a record. My father would unearth any such information the minute he ran a background check, standard operating procedure on any guy who showed the slightest interest in me.
“Is it just traffic violations or something more serious?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“It’s serious,” he said. His eyes quickly scanned the tent to be certain it was safe to continue the conversation. Then he asked, “Can I trust you?”
My mouth was dry. I nodded affirmatively.
He turned up the collar of his shirt, partially shielding his face. The corner of his mouth twitched with a tic I hadn’t noticed before. His brow furrowed. His eyes took on a vulnerable quality.
“I’ve been accused and convicted of a crime I didn’t commit,” he told me.
My heart stood still.
He leaned in close. I caught a whiff of his aftershave: British Sterling. I felt his breath against my cheek as he whispered, “My real name is Richard Kimble. I’m on the run.”
My heart burst into laughter, but my face remained as deadpan as his. “How awful!” I said. “But I’d still like to go out sometime. I won’t disclose your true identity to my father, I promise.”
He looked away with a shyness he had not exhibited earlier. His mouth twitched again, his shoulder gave a slight shrug. He cleared his throat, giving me his best David Janssen impression yet. “Are you sure?” he asked. “It could be dangerous, especially for a cop’s daughter. You would be guilty of aiding and abetting a fugitive.”
“I know,” I said. “But something tells me it will be worth the risk.”
I was already falling in love.
Bob proved to be an arduous, albeit unusual, suitor — movies, concerts, dinner, dancing, romantic picnics. And I never knew when he might slip into the Richard Kimble (“The Fugitive”) persona. The trigger could be a State Trooper passing us on the highway. Bob would slide down in the bucket seat of his ’66 Cutlass and insist I do the same. Or, we might be walking down the street and Bob would spy two beat cops coming toward us. He’d grab my hand and start running in the opposite direction, dragging me behind him.
Once, in Sterns department store, we crouched and hid behind a bin of Arrow shirts in the Men’s department, waiting for a security guard to pass by. A bit bizarre? Yes! But it was the most fun I’d ever had on dates.
On October 14, 1967, Bob declared his love for me. He said I was the girl he’d been waiting for, dreaming of. In fact, he confessed it had been love at first sight. The two and a half months of dating had only confirmed what his heart knew the moment he set eyes on me. I was the one.
We had many common interests, held the same values, shared a strong faith in the triune God. Yet, I knew a big part of the attraction was I didn’t think his obsession with Richard Kimble was crazy. I always participated in the role-play, and even initiated it on occasion.
And, so it began. We’ve been on the run together ever since.
Bob and I were married on February 16, 1969, in a beautiful, formal ceremony at St. Agnes’ Church in Little Falls. We exchanged the traditional vows: “richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do us part” — vows we consider sacred. Later at the reception, we danced to the words of the Doors: Now I’m gonna love you until the heavens stop the rain. I’m gonna love you until the stars fall from the sky for you and I — ridiculously romantic words etched on our hearts forever. The day overflowed with promise.
Unfortunately, life has not been as kind to us as we had hoped. But we never let the disappointments along the way defeat us. Instead, we’d change course, start over in a new direction, and embrace the challenge. When you live on the run, you have to expect the unexpected.
The stage was set that first night. We would live robustly, taking risks, and with such intensity that a quirky, off-beat sense of humor was necessary to maintain equilibrium. And, we would fervently support each other in chasing down our dreams, no matter how absurd the dream might seem. That pursuit landed us in some pretty amazing and adventurous situations. It also taught us something. Simply this: enjoy the journey, no matter where life takes you!
Sometimes I wish, for Bob’s sake, that I had never returned to the cow pen that night forty years ago. Then he would not have been trapped with me in this nightmare for the past seven years. Every hour of every day I do battle with a devastating and debilitating auto-immune disease that forces me to live in isolation from the world, including my beloved husband, who I can only see and talk to from a distance. Yet, he manages to overcome all obstacles to provide my basic needs. I am only alive today because of his tender, tireless care.
It is painful for Bob to watch the one he loves suffer so much. It is excruciating for me to watch the one I love watch me suffer. So, every morning we rise, in our separate places, and ask the same question. “What can I do today to make life better for the one I love? Ease his burden? Mitigate her suffering?” Sometimes all it takes is a smile, or a thank you, or a word of affection. Other times, sacrifice and hard work are required. Then there are times when nothing is enough.
When the struggle overwhelms us, frustrations erupt, tears flow, we are here to remind each other that before the nightmare began we had crammed in enough happiness and laughter to last a lifetime. Remembering enables us to transfer some of that stored up joy into the present. We take pleasure in the simplest things: watching our pets play, the piercing cry of a hawk circling above, the beauty of a sunset.
Then, at the end of the day, no matter how bad the day has been, we can honestly say we wouldn’t trade where we’ve been, the life we’ve shared, and forty years of loving each other, for anyone else’s life. And, that can only be by Divine Providence.
Wow! Forty years together! It’s been a great run. And, God willing, the run will continue a little longer.
As your next anniversary approaches, or a significant date in your loving relationship, we invite you to consider the power of love, and the capacity for human love to reflect God’s Perfect Love. Then, do everything you can to promote that kind of love in this broken world.
Linda Reinhardt is the pastor/director of the Jeremiah Project, a nationwide ministry sponsored by Mission Presbytery serving those suffering chronic illness and disability due to environmental toxins.
