GiftRap

GIFT RAP

February 2009
by Michael O'Connor

On the day after Christmas my daughter, Shannon, approached me with a stuffed monkey in her small hand. It was a cute little thing she picked up as a gift somewhere. The monkey, I mean. The hand she’s had longer.

“What do you have there?” I asked.

“It’s your Christmas present,” answered my six-year-old progeny.

“But it’s the day after Christmas,” I countered. “Why are you giving

me a present today?”

“Because you didn’t have any presents under the tree yesterday. And

I felt sad for you.”

It was true. Because the O’Connor Treasury Fund™ was more depleted this year than most, a circumstance with which many of you reading this may identify, Sally and I secured implicit, explicit—or at minimum—tacit agreements with friends, family, and members of secret Santa societies to forgo adult gift-giving so as to focus the showering of presents upon the children we know and love.

And though the shower had, by necessity, been really more of a trickle, the day had not been diminished in any way. If anything, the extra room where brightly wrapped-and-bowed packages might have congregated, left plenty of space for our focus to be more squarely placed on Jesus and the true meaning for the season at hand. So that was a good thing.

I was touched by Shannon’s display of generosity. I know this critter, though probably nameless, had once enjoyed enshrinement on the upper tier of her personal pantheon of cotton-stuffed playmates. And even knowing this impending change of ownership likely signaled a sea change in Shannon’s fickle affections toward the monkey, I was moved by the gesture and by her acute awareness that I had been shut out on the material front Christmas Day.

“Shannon, I really want to thank you for this gift. I think Mr. Monkey here still wants to live with you. But I’ll tell you what—I’ll let him sleep with me for a couple nights and that can be my Christmas present from you. Then you can bring him back to your room, because I think he’ll be missing you by that time.”

“Is that okay?” I asked, fearful of hurting her little heart.

“That’s a great idea, Papa!” Shannon responded, realizing, I think, she was coming out way ahead on this deal. Appreciation plus no interest equals maintained equity in a slow economy. My daughter is nothing if not shrewd in her business dealings. I can’t wait for that first lemonade stand.

“Papa,” she asked, coming at me from a different direction, “don’t you like presents?”

“I love to get presents, Sweetheart. I just don’t feel the need to get them like I did when I was younger. I’ve received so many wonderful presents in my life that even if I never got even one more—I think I'd be okay with that.” (Because man is carnal in nature, heavy emphasis on think.)

She looked a little puzzled as she wandered off. A small child sees a package with ribbon and wrapping and knows that is a gift. After enough birthdays, Christmases, and special occasions the little one has become accustomed to the tangible nature of the offering. One can marvel at the innocence or wonder when the jading starts, but a lot of us older folks also forget that special presents sometimes appear without warning, without occasion and, most confounding, without palpable structure.

They are transient in nature. They rely on specific brain cells remaining intact, organically active, and available to the partition of the ol’ grey matter hard drive where synapses meet neurotransmitters and do that speed dating ritual—the cerebral hokey-pokey—pulling back memories from the precipice of the forgotten.

I’m fairly certain the best presents I’ve ever received were of the variety on which you couldn’t place a bow. Off the top of my head I can think of several such gifts memorable enough to have remained fresh and safe from the ravages of cerebral decay.

It is often said that the greatest days in a person’s life are the day they marry and the day their child is born. There are a lot of silly bromides floating around the ether and I wouldn’t give a nickel for most of them. But this one happens to be true.

I most certainly remember the day Sally and I wed—I mean vividly. In audio and visual. In detail and color. I remember the texture of the meal’s seafood casserole and the taste of our “You may now kiss the bride” lip-lock. I repeatedly conjure up the audience laughter in response to the tragi-comic mangling of my one-hit-wonder It’s Quite An Honor To Be An O’Connor and can also retrieve mental pictures of the quivering mouth from which Sally sang her own composition, From Now On.

All this without benefit of a wedding video.

* * * * * * *

Our children also entered the world in camcorderless fashion. Dusty’s

birth was the longest labor. Thankfully, Sally’s mother supplemented my strength with a hearty pastrami sandwich from Bea’s Bakery

across the street from the hospital. Sally dined on ice chips and envy for the duration.

We imported the music of Michael Kelly Blanchard as the soundtrack for Bonnie’s grand entrance. When the doctor informed us our child was en route I, a veteran of one epic delivery already, quickly reached for my $7.99 Ralph’s disposable camera and pretty much missed Bonnie’s arrival. She appeared that quickly. Stupified, I blindly uttered the phrase “like a greased pig out of a chute”, thus endearing myself to Sally well into eternity.

Shannon was nearly born on Dusty’s thirteenth birthday. She was discovered in the breach position at the final scheduled sonogram. Our church body prayed that Shannon’s little body would turn—and it did—preventing a caesarian birth. We arrived at the hospital in the early evening three days later and began the process by which labor is induced. My favorite program The West Wing was coming on in an hour and I hoped the medication was not overly fast-acting. It was, so sadly, Martin Sheen wasn’t. Tough break for the kid who forgot to set the VCR.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, not long after the treatment began Sally complained to the nurse that the baby was coming. “Oh no it’s not,” assured the nurse. “Not for a few more hours.”

“Yes—soon . . .” panted Sally. “Call the doctor!”

The doctor had been notified and was home having dinner. He lived five minutes away and would be at the hospital in plenty of time we were assured. In one of the all-time miscalculations of my life, I sided with the nurse and told Sally the nurse had been doing this a long time and she had to know what she was doing.

Sally almost snapped me like a toothpick. She was in increasing pain and I was caught between the nurse and a hard place. Very soon, however, it was evident Sally had been the one delivering babies the longest, and a team of nurses and technicians assembled in short order. Minus our doctor who was, apparently still enjoying his dessert of cherries jubilee, only five minutes from the hospital.

The anesthesiologist had been called, but there was no time for the epidural to take effect. “Get outa here,” said a new nurse with more than a little contempt for the incompetence present in the unfolding situation. A nurse we hadn’t seen before delivered Shannon. My daughter’s initial cry was so loud and shrill that one of the technicians was heard to say, “Nothin’ wrong with her lungs.”

Ten fingers and toes later everything was fine. Sally was calm. My life had been spared in part, I think, because I had the good judgment to back down once Sally demanded my undivided fealty. And because I never once mentioned how hungry I was for a pastrami sandwich.

What a gift each of these days were. And I was blessed with four of them.

* * * * * * *

As I approached the occasion of my fiftieth birthday Sally and the girls asked what I wanted to do for The Big Day. Have a party? A big party? A big Now-That-You’re-Over-The-Hill-Whatchu-Gonna-Do-With-The-Rest-Of-Your-Sorry-Life kind of party?

Oh, no thank you ma’am. Not for me. I’m not ready for friends roasting me with their a capella rendition of Peggy Lee’s, Is That All There Is?

I’ve had my share of milestone birthdays with mega-celebrations and was content with the memories. Now, about to face a deluge of AARP mass mailings, I realized the last thing I wanted was a party likely to trigger Early Onset Hip Replacement.

I told my women I did not want anything big. I envisioned a Zen-like approach to the occasion. I didn’t want to focus on fifty—I was content to be one with fifty. And what would really make me happy was to spend the day around the house without any responsibilities and then have a nice dinner at home with my family.

I expected rebellion. I anticipated a fight. What I got, instead, was a stress-free day filled with exquisite, guilt-free rest (“Would you like me to fill your Diet Coke, Papa?”) followed by a fabulously

unnecessary nap.

For the grand finale we gathered around the table and swarmed a large plate of ribs and a big pan of cornbread. There were fixin’s and cake. The day was a monument to gluttony and sloth.

I was grateful there were no surprises. Not for 365 more days, at least. When birthday week rolled around again Sally didn’t bother asking me what I wanted. Instead she told me to be dressed and ready to leave the house by 9 AM. We would be going out for a special breakfast. Because the tone in her voice told me Don’t even try to weasel out of this! I didn’t even think of trying to weasel out.

“What kind of breakfast?” I asked, casting for clues like a sport fisherman at a trout farm. Envisioning a hybrid between a posh Las Vegas Smorgasbord and the honorable Hometown Buffet, my mind was already piling the Belgian Waffles, custom omelettes (“Mushroom, onion, shrimp, pleeeeease.”) crispy bacon, and link sausage to the ceiling of my stomach.

“Be ready at 9,” replied Sally, ending this fishing expedition before it left dock.

I was secure, at least, in the knowledge this would not be a surprise party. Nobody gets a surprise party for their 51st birthday except people who may not live to see their 52nd or obsessive numerologists who find gratification in any number divisible by seventeen. I felt safe on both counts.

On the appointed morning I met Sally at the car. After informing me that she was driving Sally handed me a blindfold. I handed her the keys. Sally began the trip by trying to throw me off the trail. An inordinate number of lefts and rights were no match for the human GPS sitting in the passenger seat. After three blocks I knew we were bound for Vancouver.

“I hope Dennys still has the Grand Slam special,” I teased. “Or are we destined for Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity®?” Sally ignored my chiding and turned right for Nova Scotia. After half an hour of Cannonball Run-type driving and Houdini-like misdirection we

arrived at our destination.

I was still blindfolded as we pulled up to a curb. “Strange . . . ” I thought to myself for it is the only way I know how to process thinking. “How did we get to Nova Scotia so quickly?” I didn’t have time to wait for an answer. Sally had opened the passenger door and helped me, still blindfolded, to the curb.

Nearby, a bus idled loudly. “Aha,” I continued thinking to myself, “we’re at a Greyhound Station. That’s how we’re getting to Nova Scotia!” The bus pulled away and I was left alone on the sidewalk with dreams of a semi-Arctic breakfast fading into the distance.

At that moment someone with a masculine presence—a man, I was guessing—took me by the elbow. “This person will take you the rest of the way,” whispered Sally. I remembered reading a novel where disenchanted wives disposed of their husbands in similar fashion. “Adieu,” I called back. “We’ll always have Van Nuys . . . ”

I was led by the masculine presence through a door and down a hallway. The silence was crushing. This was definitely not iHop. The floors were not sticky enough. We walked through another door and a hush fell over the new room as Mikey came boppin’ in off the street. There were people here. Dozens, maybe thousands of crazed numerology cultists had gathered, apparently, to eat breakfast with me. Either that or there were a lot of disenchanted wives dropping off their menfolk that morning.

“Why don’t you reach out your hand and say hello to some of these people?” my guide whispered. I didn’t know if I’d be pushing my hand into a buzz saw or reaching into a lion’s mouth. I’d had a good run. No regrets. Except for missing breakfast, of course.

A human hand grasped mine and shook warmly. “Glad you could make it,” I heard someone say. This was the voice of my pastor, Bill Dwyer. “Hi Bill.” I offered, rather stunned. “Thanks for coming.”

Over the next twenty minutes the guide, who turned out to be my good friend and associate pastor Lynn Cory, led me around the room in my blindfolded state. I was able to greet and name about ninety-five per cent of the assembled, strictly by identifying their voices. All were men either from my church or my past. I was especially moved by the extraordinary efforts of three friends to attend.

Duane King, from high school, drove down from Northern California. Mike McCarron, my old college buddy, had flown in that morning from San Francisco. He spent less than an hour with us then flew home to referee a baseball game that afternoon. And David Waterman, perhaps the guy who laughs hardest at my jokes, which is reason enough to keep him around—had winged in for the day all the way from Grand Forks, North Dakota.

I was finally seated and had my blindfold removed. Every one of my guests, probably twenty-five or thirty in all, was a man. This was Sally’s idea. I had been enduring a particularly hard stretch in my life that left me sapped of enthusiasm and confidence. I think they call it Mid-Wife Crisis. She wanted to remind me of the man I was and the many friends I have.

I looked across the Fellowship Hall of my church and saw a sea of smiling faces. OK, maybe it was more like a small lake. My three daughters and Sally scurried in the background, busily preparing a home-cooked meal for us. Jerry Lansdowne led us with some worship music to sanctify the occasion. The men prayed over me. They roasted me with a lot of stories I wished they hadn’t remembered and said a few nice things as well. And there were even some presents of the wrapped variety.

But this was a morning that transcended bows and wrapping. It was one of those rare gifts you get—not because you deserve it—but because you’re one of God’s kids and He wants you to have it. He calls it grace. He wants to remind you that you are special to Him. He used Sally to deliver that message—loud and clear.

I looked hungrily at the glorious plate of eggs, sausage, potatoes and

fruit set down before me. It was a bounty to behold. I had much to be thankful for. And miles to go before I reached Nova Scotia.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” —James 1:17

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