The gift of Charlie

“I just passed your house and had to call you,” said the buoyant, still boyish voice of my high school best boy friend. I have to separate those last two words because Charlie and I were really and truly best friends, never sweethearts or steadies. He just happened to be a boy, that’s all.

For the past few decades, Charlie has worn his collar backwards and tended a large flock of believers down south. One assumes he exudes the dignity appropriate to his vocation these days. But back when we were kids, both of us were wildly goofy—and nearly inseparable. Example: My father came into the kitchen once when Charlie and I were trying to tie our shoes with our toes. We explained, shrieking with laughter, how this skill would come in handy (see what I did there?) if we ever lost the use of our fingers. My poor dad, familiar with these kinds of shenanigans from us, just shook his head and backed out of the room, deciding against a snack.

Charlie and I have known each other since elementary school when we clashed over the role of Paul Bunyan in the 5^th grade play. As the tallest kid in the class, I figured I had a lock on it. But Charlie, horrified at the idea of a GIRL playing the mythic male, stepped up. I was humiliatingly relegated to playing Paul’s mom, with the shortest kid in the class picked as my comic relief husband. (Some teachers get their kicks the weirdest way, don’t they?)

A rocky start like that might have foundered some friendships, but ours blossomed because of our mutual love of the ridiculous. We have nearly identical senses of humor and if you don’t know how rare that is, look around. Laughter was and is our native tongue and nothing’s better than making each other howl, then and now.  

Along with practical experiments (like toe-tying shoes), we tried out adolescent milestones on each other. (Easy now. Ours was a G-rated relationship.) Since no one seemed interested in the twin class beanpoles yet, Charlie and I embarked on a training wheels “date” at a fabled ice cream parlor in the next county. He remembers the soda clerk cautioning “don’t forget your bag” when I stood and left my purse on the chair. Charlie’s snappy comeback? “Don’t worry, I won’t leave her behind.” Everyone in the joint—me included–roared. I remember that same outing as the night I was a pay-the-bill-or-else hostage while Charlie made a panicked ONE HOUR round trip to his house in his gas-guzzling Dodge to fetch his forgotten wallet. We giggled about it all the way home.   

We were always into something, as my mother would have said. Charlie fondly reminisces about me forcing him to stand up whenever the American flag passed by during neighborhood Fourth of July parades. (Free hot dogs, burgers, and Cokes and a very sweaty baseball game on the elementary school playing grounds are key parts of that memory, too.) We argued religion, attended school functions, cheered for each other in plays, and laughed. A lot. At everything.

In between chuckles during today’s call, Charlie repeatedly praised one aspect of our shared upbringing—how much he felt loved by our teachers. Charlie remembers his teachers with a love that borders on adoration. He can reel off their names, every one of them. Mrs. Lovelace, Miss Boaz, Mr. Seech, Miss Keene, Mr. Heritage, Mrs. Farrell, Mrs. Kinsley. Did I remember when every elementary student wrote to the Board of Education to nominate Mrs. Brown for School Secretary of the Year? I have no memory of that (was I home sick that day?), but he continues to relish Mrs. B’s landslide win.    

“They poured their hearts and lives into us,” Charlie enthused. “I felt so cared for. We got an incredible education. Do you realize how blessed we were? We had great, great teachers, didn’t we? They really loved us. And we knew they loved us.”

In response to such teacherly devotion, Charlie sent a recent thank you note to our high school drama teacher, informing her if she hadn’t volunteered him for auditions, he wouldn’t have learned to be comfortable in front of an audience and wouldn’t be preaching God’s Word today. (He also mentioned I basically ‘forced’ him to take drama class so we could be together. I must have been pretty bossy. Why I use past tense there is questionable…).

“We had a truly wonderful childhood, didn’t we,” he sighed, winding down a bit after we’d hooted over another nutty moment. “We were taught to appreciate the good things in life, to know what’s right and do it. That doesn’t happen now as much.” He ought to know. As a veteran monsignor of a huge parish, he knows a thing or two about current social norms.

But here’s the thing. Charlie not only cherishes his upbringing with appreciative tenderness, the resultant manifold blessings are a daily marvel to him. He’s in constant awe of how loved he felt, how precious his youth was, how much it impacted his future and his happy career. He’s 100% sincere, too. This isn’t some phony positive thinking baloney. He believes with his whole beautiful heart that God has been so, so good to him. To us. To our neighborhood, our schools, our generation.

When I got off the phone with him, I bowed my head and cried, thanking God for the gift of Charlie.

It’s so easy to be cynical and dark and angry, blaming today’s cultural potholes on yesterday’s bad engineering. Not Charlie. He has sifted out the ugliness and chosen to focus on the good. He’s always playing “the glad game.” Pollyanna goggles? Maybe.

But I learned something from my dear old friend today. Gratitude always lifts the heart and you can always find something to be grateful for—if you look. He’s right, you know.

I have a long, long history of blessings.

And Charlie’s near the top of my list.

“A merry heart is good medicine.” Proverbs 17:22