The Birthday Gift

Humbleness is undoubtedly my best personal attribute, but running a close second would be gratefulness. It’s not something I can really take credit for, much like my winning personality and perfect cholesterol level, I was just born that way.

Even as a kid, I was always thankful for things that lesser children hated. My siblings scoffed at their peas, but I could appreciate the little green globes for being high in dietary fiber and yet so low in saturated fat. And I never minded doing household chores because I was so grateful to my parents for letting me crash at their place, rent-free. Besides, I was building so much character every time I emptied the dishwasher.

Natural inclinations have matured into deeply engrained habits now that I have reached adulthood. I still remember to take time out of my day to be thankful for things others so coolly ignore- like bipedalism, fine motor skills, the polio vaccine, and the TV remote control. I have been known to thank the News5 weatherman for his report, even though I know he can’t possibly hear me. Every day when I eat, I always thank God for providing my food. After each meal I thank the person who paid for it, as I usually haven’t any money.

I’m always gracious and appreciative, but I was in particularly thankful spirits on my sixteenth birthday when my parents gave me a vehicle of my own, free of charge.

Which was great. Except it was a truck.

It’s the structure of trucks that really hacks me off. With that squat, compact cab so clumsily conjoined to six feet of trailing truck bed straggling behind, it’s the automobile equivalent of the mullet. And for the record, I don’t like mullets, either.

On top of all that, it was ugly, too. A two-foot wide teal stripe rubber banded the Ford’s circumference like a cheap 80’s fanny pack. Neither blue nor green, teal is one of those annoying colors that can never make up its mind and I hate it for its inherent indecisiveness.

All of this may have bothered some people, shallow people, but I’m not like that. I’m not a demanding sort of person. If Oliver was a greedy beggar, I would have been one of the humble orphans who carefully slurped my thin porridge without complaint. That’s just the type of person I am. 

I’m always gracious and appreciative, but I was in particularly thankful spirits on my sixteenth birthday when my parents gave me an ugly truck of my own, free of charge.

But then again, they didn’t actually buy the truck for me.

When I was twelve, my parents built a house in a subdivision just outside the city limits, which meant we were forced to forfeit the comforts of city living. Luxuries like 911 service and trash collection were things we only heard stories about from the people who lived East of the local Wal-Mart.

Not wanting to convert our swimming pools into trash pits, the inhabitants of our little colony were ordered to haul all of our waste to a large garbage container in a remote corner of the development. My father would barely let his own children ride in his meticulously maintained Land Cruiser and he wasn’t about to rub shoulders with a brimming Hefty bag. He soon purchased a Ford truck whose sole purpose in life was to deliver trash from Point A, our house, to Point B, the garbage container three blocks away.

I’m sure I knew even then at the age of twelve, that I was going to be the one who would end up driving the Ford. My father was a rich man, but he wasn’t frivolous. The idea of him purchasing a vehicle to be used only for transporting trash was a stretch, and I knew it.

I’m sure some people would turn their noses up at a truck like that. A trash truck. But I don’t associate with those people. Like a modern-day Pollyanna, I’ve always been able to find something to be glad about.

I’m always gracious and appreciative, but I was in particularly thankful spirits on my sixteenth birthday when my parents gave me the ugly trash truck, free of charge.

But then again, money isn’t the only way to pay for things.

When I was only thirteen, my father already had a payment plan in mind for my first car. I was to memorize three entire books of the Bible. Each birthday would serve as a checkpoint. I would be required to recite one of the books and if I was successful, I would receive a handsome monetary reward. At least it seemed like quite a sum during those days when the most extravagant thing I wanted was a pair of Doc Martin’s. In retrospect, if you break down all the time it took for me to commit pages of block text to memory, my hourly wage was probably comparable to that of an employee of a Malaysian sweatshop.

For the record, I memorized II Timothy, Philippians, and I Timothy, and in that exact sequence. My parents always argue about the order whenever I mention this.

“I thought it was James,” one of them will say. Or, “I’m sure you memorized I Timothy before II Timothy.”

But I didn’t. And I’m pretty sure, I would know.

The ultimate reward was to be after I had memorized the third and final book. The gates would open, angels would sing, and I would get a car of my own. Not a new car, mind you. Even at my young age, I was already horribly practical and I knew my father would never consider giving an inexperienced and untried teenager a new car. But if I played my cards right, I thought there was an outside chance I might just get my hands on something that would still be considered cool by my friends.

My high school’s mascot was a mustang and I thought the idea of driving a red, slightly-used Ford Mustang would be a nice touch. Not overly flashy, but cool enough that I could find someone to ride with me to lunch.

“Oh, just a Mustang.” I would say, casually, when my classmates asked me what kind of car my parents gave me. I would be sure to stipulate, “it’s a couple years old,” not wanting my contemporaries to get the impression I was spoiled. I’ve always been humble, like that.

That last book was a little tough because after learning the first chapter I had put off memorizing the rest of the book until the eve of my sixteenth birthday. So during the magical hours that I transformed from age fifteen to sixteen, I was frantically memorizing inches of text. My brain was so crowded with verses I had to shove out some happy childhood memories just to make room.

Around 2:30 AM I finally had the whole thing down pat and I ran to my parents bedroom to tell my dad that I had accomplished the task and could be awarded my Mustang.

My father did not share in my sense of urgency. “Oh, yeah. Great. Tell it to me tomorrow.”

The next morning, my father gathered everyone to the breakfast table. My siblings’ eyes were still half-shut with sleep but their mouths worked well enough to complain about their mandatory attendance to my Biblical recital. My father told the bad-tempered trolls to shut up and opened to I Timothy. I took a deep breath and recited the entire book, perfectly.

My father snapped the Bible shut and smiled at me. “Great job! Let’s go get you the keys to your car.”

He went to his bedroom and brought back a small gift-wrapped box. I gave it a shake and heard the rattle of a key inside and smiled.  I removed the festive paper and lifted the lid to find a brand new silver key chain. With the old Ford truck keys on it.

Admittedly, I was slightly disappointed, but how can anyone really complain about memorizing the Holy Word of God? I never would. The more critical might also point out that my four younger siblings were never asked to memorize so much as the Pledge of Allegiance for their cars. I once was so bold as to ask my mother about this. She was quick to point out that the private school I attended was much less challenging than that of my siblings. Apparently academic rigor trumps moral fortitude when it comes to automobiles in my family.

I’m always gracious and appreciative, but I was in particularly thankful spirits on my sixteenth birthday when my parents gave me the ugly trash truck after I memorized three entire books of the Bible.