The Birthday You Made Me Bulletproof

 

It was just another day with too much to do and not enough time to do it.

I was up before the sun, like usual. Working at my desk, like usual. Like I said, it was just another day, until my wife started singing, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

I’d totally forgot.

We laughed. I said thanks. She wished me a happy birthday. I went back to work. She went on about her day.

It was just another day.

A few hours later, feeling wholly unqualified and unfit, for the honor of the task at hand, I stood before some faithful saints and did my best to teach from the book of Revelation. While I did, I couldn’t help but notice the folks whispering one to another.

How rude.

All too soon the hour was done, we bowed our heads. As soon as I said, “amen,” the room burst into the cheerful sound of “happy birthday to you…”

How nice.

I laughed and waved my hands and said, “I don’t do that anymore.”

We smiled and giggled and they kept right on singing.

While packing up our gear, putting away speaker and cords and projector; into the clubhouse walked Louella, singing with her ever present smile, “happy birthday to you…”

We laughed and talked. I said thanks and continued to pack up my things.

Tom-the handyman walked in, of course, Louella pointed and said, “It’s his birthday.” Tom broke into song. I never knew he could sing so good. Louella went to the piano and started to play, and they sang it all again.

What amazing people.

Soon I was back at my desk buried in the busy.

In the blink of any eye, it was dark, supper was ready, lasagna, I could smell it. I was hungry and weary. I was thinking of wrapping it up, but in came, just one more call.

It was the office, asking if I could make a call. I agreed. They said, it was urgent. Like always.

I made the call, introduced myself, and couldn’t speak for about a half an hour or more.

The machine gun fire started blasting through the phone, only the ammunition wasn’t bullets, but words. Round after round, not even pausing to take a breath, or reload.

I took a few notes. The shooting continued, rat-a-tat-tat. I smiled thinking of my wife singing in the morning. I tried to put myself in his shoes.

Word after word, fast, furious and riddled with stuttering. I had misunderstood the Bible study group, whispering their birthday choir conspiracy. Not rude at all, but nice. I let him know we were on his side and invited him to continue.

About that time, my door opened, slow and quiet. Around the door, about three feet from the floor, peaked a precious little face. Presley can talk enough to make Mr. Machine gun, look like slow pitch soft ball, but this time, she didn’t say a word, was quiet as a mouse.

The door opened a little bit more and she tip-toed ever so gently toward me. She walked around to my side of the desk.

The machine gun fire had started to slow.

Little Presley’s arms out stretched, in her hands, she held a box. She looked up at me and then at the box. Still, she never made a peep. On the box was written, Happy Birthday Papa. In the box was a pecan pie.  I’ve always said, the best birthday cake, is a pecan pie. My daughter heard, and always delivered.

I stepped in front of the machine gun fire and explained what was happening at that very moment.

The machine gun stalled, choked, misfired.

My granddaughter and I, shared a hug. As we did, sweet Presley whispered, “Happy birthday, Papa.”

 Then she turned, tip-toed once again out of the room and quietly closed the door.

The machine gun melted, and in its place was a man, just a man feeling wholly unqualified and unfit for the task at hand. 

I let him know, “You’re not alone. I know exactly how you feel.” 

We finished our conversation and as much as possible we shook hands, over the phone.

When I finally emerged, the kids had gone, supper was cold. 

Instead of blowing out candles, I’d blown off my family, and my own birthday party, for some job, some stranger.

My wife wasn’t mad—she’s used to my schedule. The kids weren’t upset, just because they’re awesome like that.

I contacted my daughter. Thanked her for the pie, apologized for my behavior. She said, it was okay, and only felt bad that on my birthday, I had to go through machine gun fire.

That’s okay. It’s part of the job. Just another day.

How’d I ever get surrounded by such amazing people?

I may forget my birthday again, and it’s likely I’ll forget yours, too. You can be sure, I’ll be on the phone again, the other end of blazing barrels. But one thing, I’ll never forget; above all the pies and presents, I’ll always remember and cherish, this birthday, when your simple song, smile and kindness, not only made me bulletproof, but actually melted the gun.

Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven. Matthew 5:16