Isn’t it like age 14 or so when birthdays stop being really fun? Don’t get me wrong. We should all be thankful to the Lord for another year of living. But at some point the presents and the little hat and streamers are replaced by e-cards and bulletin mentions. Such is life.
Still, I was hopeful when my good friend, Wayne Maynard, told me last year that there was a very good chance that Micah would be born on November 5. How exciting this would be for Wayne and Shennetter! Micah would be the answer to prayer after Shennetter’s multiple pregnancy-related health issues.
And he would be Wayne’s greatest birthday gift ever.
Plot twist. Gasp. No “happily ever after” here. Shennetter’s whacky doctor was too busy, or something, to perform the C-Section on the 5th. He preferred the 6th.
Surely he didn’t know that Wayne’s birthday was on the 5th, right? Wrong. He knew full well. Perhaps he couldn’t move his tee time. Now that’s a real reason for health care reform.
Me? I would’ve pitched a fit. But Wayne is much nicer than I am. And angering the man who was about to deliver his son didn’t seem to be high on Wayne’s priority list. Fine. Just seemed wrong to me.
Fast forward a year. It’s now November 2009. Micah’s 1st birthday is approaching. Shennetter has made plans. She’s cooked a big meal and invited us all over to celebrate our godson’s special day. In style.
Now we’re at the Maynards enjoying a party that one-year-old Micah will never remember. There’s chicken wings, and crab dip, and shrimp cocktail, and cake. And there’s a little hat and streamers too.
And oh yeah, Wayne’s birthday was the day before. Happy belated birthday, Wayne! It’s a good thing you’re a proud dad, ‘cause YOUR birthday will forevermore be yesterday’s news. Sorry.
Then again, maybe not. I’m paraphrasing…
“I wanted to do something different for my birthday,” he said.
Yeah, yeah whatever. Say cheese, Micah!
“You guys mean the world to me. I’m so honored that you would be here tonight for Micah and so thankful for the impact each of you has had in our lives.”
Ok, he was getting sentimental, so now we had to pay attention. For the next several minutes Wayne elaborated in great detail about what each of us meant to him personally.
“So I decided that this year, for MY birthday, I would do something I always wanted to do. I bought gifts for each of YOU.”
Chicken wing, you’ve been spared. At least for now.
“Cameron and Casey,” Wayne said, “I’ve watched you grow.”
He handed them the coolest new game for their Wii.
“Lora and Denise, you are wonderful godmothers to both of our children.”
He handed them $50 Macy’s gift cards.
“Mike, you have been a great mentor and friend. I wanted to get you something that I knew you wanted and that will help you accomplish one of your 73 stated goals for next year.”
He handed me a brand new guitar.
“What can I say about my wonderful wife Shennetter? You are everything to me.”
He handed her a new Dell laptop.
As surprising as all of this was it’s really very much in character. Wayne is one of the most selfless people I know. He’s a terrific listener, encourager and the definition of a friend. I don’t remember one time when he hasn’t been all of these to me.
But I’m pretty sure I’ll always remember his birthday.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Filet O' Fear
Despite the occasional service faux pas, our Couples Retreat last weekend went off without a hitch. And now everybody was headed home, anxious to get things prepared for Harvest Day and grateful for the extra hour that Daylight Standard Time would soon offer.
Lora and I along with our friends, Carl and Angie, were also looking forward to grabbing some seafood from Richmond’s famous Croaker Spot Restaurant. We had talked about it all week. The hole-in-the-wall eatery sits on a moderately busy street corner in one of the country’s oldest black neighborhoods and was once featured on the Food Network. One bite of their signature dish—fried fish and shrimp smothered in onions and red peppers, accompanied by cheese grits, cabbage and sweet corn bread—and you’d understand why the line to get into the restaurant’s brick-front brownstone often circles the block.
The wait to sit and eat was at least an hour (at 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon). So we opted to carry-out and dine at Chez Expeditione’—a.k.a., inside my SUV. Carl waited in line for the food. Angie waited in the car for Carl. Lora and I headed off to find a convenience store to get drinks.
“Make mine a ginger ale. I can’t handle the acidity of Sprite or 7-up.” Carl is such a baby.
After about five minutes I spotted a BP gas station/convenience store. It was one of those tiny ones that sat in between the gas pumps with a door on either side of the store. Perfect. It wasn’t like I was going grocery shopping. I parked the truck at a vacant spot in front of a pump and went inside while Lora waited. As soon as I walked in I saw the refrigerated section. Three diet cokes and a fruit punch (they had no ginger ale), easy enough. I then proceeded to the register. There were now two guys standing in front of the door I had recently entered.
I don’t want to stereotype here, so you can insert your own mental image. Let’s just say, they were very imposing dudes. Young, with thick jackets on—even though it was in the high 60s—and neither of them was smiling. They whispered something to each other and kept looking back at me.
Ok, fine. Sticks and stones. No big deal. Soon I would be safe and sound in my wussy, seafood-loving world.
The guy at the cash register started to ring me up. But he was making eye contact with the two gentlemen at the door. A quick glance back, and I noticed they were making eye contact with him too. All the while, our soft drinks were being scanned and bagged at the speed of paint-drying, or so it seemed.
About this time two other fellas, also of the baser sort, entered the already, way too crowded store. They walked directly to the other door (which I had already planned to use) and stood in front of it.
Now, we had a situation. Classic triangulation. Doors blocked to the left and right. Undetermined allegiance straight ahead. And behind me a dead end of refrigerators, a unisex restroom and racks of beef jerky and bubble gum.
Aw man. This was bad.
It was pretty clear what was getting ready to happen. Ten eyes were looking at me with my trademark church khakis and cotton polo that just screamed, “Mug me and kill me” (or vice-versa).
So I prayed. My eyes were open, but I was praying. God help me! Then I thought about Lora. Could she hear me if I scream? Probably not. Should I just give them the wallet now? Nah. They might think I’m hiding something else. Maybe I should go for my phone. My beautiful one-day-old iPhone 3Gs?!?
God help me!
The first two guys started walking towards me. I should also mention that all of this happened within about thirty seconds. But my recollection is remarkably clear.
Then, a seventh individual entered the store. I didn’t see his or her face. All I know is that this person was not a part of the situation. The four door blockers dispersed immediately, the checkout guy popped into fifth gear, bagging my drinks in one fell swoop, and I was out of there without a receipt.
Kissed my wife as soon as I got back in the truck, well, right after locking the doors. I was notably thankful at that moment for God’s protection. He is so good. There is absolutely nothing to fear with Him on my side.
Ok, but still, I floored it out of the lot.
“Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings, From the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about.” Psalms 17:8-9
Lora and I along with our friends, Carl and Angie, were also looking forward to grabbing some seafood from Richmond’s famous Croaker Spot Restaurant. We had talked about it all week. The hole-in-the-wall eatery sits on a moderately busy street corner in one of the country’s oldest black neighborhoods and was once featured on the Food Network. One bite of their signature dish—fried fish and shrimp smothered in onions and red peppers, accompanied by cheese grits, cabbage and sweet corn bread—and you’d understand why the line to get into the restaurant’s brick-front brownstone often circles the block.
The wait to sit and eat was at least an hour (at 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon). So we opted to carry-out and dine at Chez Expeditione’—a.k.a., inside my SUV. Carl waited in line for the food. Angie waited in the car for Carl. Lora and I headed off to find a convenience store to get drinks.
“Make mine a ginger ale. I can’t handle the acidity of Sprite or 7-up.” Carl is such a baby.
After about five minutes I spotted a BP gas station/convenience store. It was one of those tiny ones that sat in between the gas pumps with a door on either side of the store. Perfect. It wasn’t like I was going grocery shopping. I parked the truck at a vacant spot in front of a pump and went inside while Lora waited. As soon as I walked in I saw the refrigerated section. Three diet cokes and a fruit punch (they had no ginger ale), easy enough. I then proceeded to the register. There were now two guys standing in front of the door I had recently entered.
I don’t want to stereotype here, so you can insert your own mental image. Let’s just say, they were very imposing dudes. Young, with thick jackets on—even though it was in the high 60s—and neither of them was smiling. They whispered something to each other and kept looking back at me.
Ok, fine. Sticks and stones. No big deal. Soon I would be safe and sound in my wussy, seafood-loving world.
The guy at the cash register started to ring me up. But he was making eye contact with the two gentlemen at the door. A quick glance back, and I noticed they were making eye contact with him too. All the while, our soft drinks were being scanned and bagged at the speed of paint-drying, or so it seemed.
About this time two other fellas, also of the baser sort, entered the already, way too crowded store. They walked directly to the other door (which I had already planned to use) and stood in front of it.
Now, we had a situation. Classic triangulation. Doors blocked to the left and right. Undetermined allegiance straight ahead. And behind me a dead end of refrigerators, a unisex restroom and racks of beef jerky and bubble gum.
Aw man. This was bad.
It was pretty clear what was getting ready to happen. Ten eyes were looking at me with my trademark church khakis and cotton polo that just screamed, “Mug me and kill me” (or vice-versa).
So I prayed. My eyes were open, but I was praying. God help me! Then I thought about Lora. Could she hear me if I scream? Probably not. Should I just give them the wallet now? Nah. They might think I’m hiding something else. Maybe I should go for my phone. My beautiful one-day-old iPhone 3Gs?!?
God help me!
The first two guys started walking towards me. I should also mention that all of this happened within about thirty seconds. But my recollection is remarkably clear.
Then, a seventh individual entered the store. I didn’t see his or her face. All I know is that this person was not a part of the situation. The four door blockers dispersed immediately, the checkout guy popped into fifth gear, bagging my drinks in one fell swoop, and I was out of there without a receipt.
Kissed my wife as soon as I got back in the truck, well, right after locking the doors. I was notably thankful at that moment for God’s protection. He is so good. There is absolutely nothing to fear with Him on my side.
Ok, but still, I floored it out of the lot.
“Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings, From the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about.” Psalms 17:8-9
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