Heaven's Grocery Store

I think by most accounts I’m a pretty sentimental guy. I remember birthdays and anniversaries, I get choked up when I watch my kids do something new and amazing, and I know all the words to several songs off my Power Ballads of the 80s CD. But I’ll tell you where I draw the line, friend. Those uber-schmaltzy “faith promoting” emails that find their way into my email inbox time and time again.

You want I should give you an example? Here is a gem I recently came across. My thoughts can be found in parentheses:

Heaven’s Grocery Store

As I was walking down life’s highway, many years ago,
I came upon a sign that read Heaven’s Grocery Store.
[Hey, I think my mom used to shop there. Isn’t that the one next to the Food 4 Less?]

When I got a little closer the doors swung open wide
And when I came to, I was standing inside.
I saw a host of angels. They were standing everywhere.
One handed me a basket and said,
“My child shop with care.” [“There’s a spill over on aisle 8.”]

Every thing a human needed was in that grocery store.
And what you could not carry you could come back for more.
[Hey…like a REAL grocery store! I think this analogy may be on to something…]

First I got some Patience. [I must be out myself, ‘cause this is where I lost interest.]
Love was in that same row.
Further down was Understanding,
You need that everywhere you go. [To put up with people who insist on sending these emails.]

I got a box or two of Wisdom, and Faith a bag or two.
And Charity of course, I would need some of that too.
[This guy is some kind of poetic genius, rhyming “two” with “too.”]

I couldn’t miss the Holy Ghost, it was all over the place.
[Knocking items off shelves, “sampling” fruit off the stand.]
And then some Strength and Courage to help me run this race. [And finish this “poem.”]
My basket was getting full but I remembered I needed Grace.

And then I chose Salvation, for Salvation was free.
[Sure, free is good. But throw in a box of Zingers, and then you really got somethin’.]
I tried to get enough of that to do for you and me.
[Yes, of course, you can always borrow somebody else’s Salvation. Like milk. “Can I borrow a cup of Salvation?” “Oh, I picked you up a whole gallon when I was down at Heaven’s Grocery Store.” “Why, thank you! Is that the one next to Food 4 Less?”]

Then I started to the counter to pay my grocery bill,
For I thought I had everything to do the Master’s will.

As I went up the aisle I saw Prayer and put that in,
For I knew when I stepped outside I would run into sin.
[I left it running, with the key in the ignition.]

Peace and Joy were plentiful, the last thing on the shelf.
Song and Praise were hanging near so I just helped myself.
[Hey! What about the rest of us? Sure, pick me up some free Salvation, but then keep all the Song and Praise for yourself! Why didn’t you get any Generosity, you selfish, selfish person.]

The I said to the angel, “How much do I owe?”
He smiled and said [“I’m sorry, my shift just ended…”]
“Just take them with you everywhere you go.”

And again I asked, “Really now, how much do I owe?” [I simply INSIST on paying ALL of my bills. I absolutely hate it when people try to let me off the hook.]

“My child,” he said, “God paid your bill a long, long time ago.”

This poem has been sent to you with love and for good luck. It originated in the Netherlands and has been around the world 9 times. [So that makes it more true.] The luck has now come to you and you will receive good luck in the mail within six days of receiving this letter, providing you send it out to someone else. Do not send money as this message has no price. [No price? How about the cost of 20 seconds of my life that I’ll never get back, in addition to a tiny slice of my soul.]

Do not keep this letter but send it on to someone who needs good luck. Of course, “good luck” is just another way of saying “blessings.” [That’s why you always get “good luck” by being obedient to commandments and “blessings” when you’re at the craps table.] Send five copies within 90 hours of reading this and see what happens in six days.

So if you are ever shopping at Heaven’s Grocery Store, and we bump into each other in the Charity aisle, and they are having a two-for-one sale on Longsuffering, and you see me filling my cart…please don’t judge. I need all the help I can get.

[P.S. So I’m perpetuating this email by posting it on my blog. And with any luck (or blessing), that good luck I’ll be receiving in the mail within six days will be Power Ballads of the 80s, Volume 2.]

And Baby Makes Seven

Katie woke me up early Saturday morning to tell me that she was having contractions. Well, how do you go back to sleep after that?! (Pretty easily, it turns out.) Katie crawled back into bed and we went back to sleep for a few more hours.

When Katie actually did get out of bed, she ventured to the potty room and promptly lost her mucus plug. For those of you who know what a mucus plug is, you understand that this means things were progressing. For those of you who don’t know what a mucus plug is, I can only assume that it’s a conscious decision and you don’t want to know what it is; and far be it from me to put such images in your head. So just skip to the next paragraph.

By mid-morning the contractions weren’t any harder or more regular. This was frustrating for Katie, and a little boring for me. Then, all of a sudden, and without warning, they stopped completely. Katie took a nap, and I went to do some Christmas shopping at Wal-Mart. Don’t get me started. No, seriously. Do NOT get me started.

By late afternoon Katie was up and moving, and I, bloodied and war-torn from my Wal-Mart excursion, was wrapping Christmas presents while visions of shoppers being pelted by sugar plums (that I was throwing) filled my head. The contractions had picked back up, but were still irregular, and according to Katie, not all that painful. She could breathe through them as she kept busy with other things.

We had a meeting at the church building that night (adult session of Stake Conference, for you LDS folks), and Katie decided to go, feeling that maybe the distraction would help her to not sit on the couch and look at her watch and wait for the proverbial stork to show up. Throughout the two-hour meeting I would occasionally hear Katie breathing louder than usual, and I knew she was having a contraction. But that didn’t stop me from shushing her, because I am all about the reverence. At one point I thought she was making a gesture, but it turned out she was just telling me that the contraction was “one” minute long.

We got home from the meeting, got comfortable, and put on a movie. About an hour into it it became obvious that Katie was having more consistent contractions and also that Tom Hanks wasn’t leaving that Terminal anytime soon. Even though there were more contractions, they were not regular. Seven minutes apart, then four, then six, then five – and then the contractions were a minute long, then 30 seconds, then a minute-and-a-half. Weird. I mentioned to Katie that we should call Margie the Midwife. Even if we didn’t think she needed to come over immediately, it would be a good idea to let her know what the day had been like and see what her take on it was.

Her take on it was that she was coming over immediately. I can’t help but think that this was due (to a large degree) to how our last labor and delivery went. (For those of you just joining this saga, the last labor and delivery went without Margie the Midwife.)

Margie showed up around 11:45 p.m., and we all decided to adjourn to the Birthing Room (aka, our bedroom). Katie sprawled out on the bed and tried to get comfortable. The contractions were getting a little harder and no position on the bed was working for her. Margie suggested she check Katie and see how dilated she was. Ta-da! Katie was completely dilated to a 10!

“But…” said Margie… “I can’t feel a head.”

“Oh, GREAT!” I said. “No head!? The kids on the playground are going to be ruthless! But I suppose the upside is that our food bill will be about the same.”

My funnies fell on deaf ears.

Margie explained that the amniotic sack (or “water bag”) was in contact with the cervix, and the head was up and off to the side. At this point, you could literally see the shape of the baby – where its head was and the length of the body. The head was not engaged in the necessary location, and that was Margie’s concern.

“I can break the water and control the leak so it’s slow – that will allow me to guide the baby’s head into place.”

“Oh, good,” we said.

“Yes…and that should work. Even if the bum or feet come first, we’re okay.”

“Okay,” we nodded.

“…but if a hand comes out first, we’re in trouble. You would need to be rushed to the hospital, and you would most likely need a c-section.”

I nodded as I listened to Margie, recognizing her need to give us a Worse Case scenario, just in case we needed to jump into action and she wouldn’t have to explain as we went. But I completely trusted Margie. She had done this kind of thing hundreds, if not thousands, of times. One of them with one of our other children. And she explained it very calmly and matter-of-factly, indicating to me that she was not at all concerned about it happening.

But the timing was such that Katie was already feeling vulnerable. And all she was hearing was “Blah, blah blah – hand coming out first – blah, blah, blah – you’ll need a c-section – blah, blah, blah – Tom Hanks is never going to get out of that Terminal.”

I was kneeling on the side of the bed, holding Katie’s hand as she lay down. We were both listening to Margie, and I thought we were on the same page, when I felt Katie squeeze my hand. I looked over at her, and for the only moment through this entire experience, I saw concern in her eyes.

“You have to fix it.”

“What?”

“You have to fix it,” she pleaded.

It broke my heart to see this uncertainty in Katie’s eyes. This makes no sense to you, I’m sure, but having been around Katie for over 10 years now, and being deeply in love with her, I easily cracked her code. She just wanted to be reassured that there was no way a hand was going to come out first. And I reassured her that Margie was only giving us the “disclaimer” and that everything would be perfectly fine.

With that, Margie broke the water, and our baby fell right into place, head first, right on cue. I got up on the bed and helped Katie scoot to the side of the bed. I sat behind her and held her up under her arms, so she was in a squatting position. Margie laid out all the pads and cloths and assumed her position on the other end of Katie.

Katie began pushing – so consciously and by design – and after only a couple of pushes, the head was out. Another push, and Margie was holding a new baby. Our new baby. A baby boy. A 10 lbs. 4 oz. baby boy.

If you are just now regaining consciousness from reading that, I will now confirm what you’ve read is true. A 10 lbs. 4 oz baby boy…with a 15 ¾ inch head. And he is beautiful. He nursed immediately. And my favorite characteristic so far is that he sleeps through the night.

The name we finally decided on is Tanner Bruce Craig. Tanner is my mom’s maiden name, and rich in heritage, which I love. Bruce is Katie’s dad’s name, as well as New Jersey’s own Bruce Springsteen. (No relation, I just thought I’d point it out.) He was born at 12:18 a.m. on Sunday, December 4th. (Tanner, not Springsteen.)

Katie made this delivery look so graceful and smooth, it was like something we just did every Saturday night. I am always in awe of her abilities and the strength she exhibits at moments when I would certainly do some real damage to whoever else was in the room. Of course, I do exhibit my own kind of grace and restraint in the lines at Wal-Mart. You can’t take that away from me.

My Name Is Ken. But My Friends Call Me Robert.

So, it’s 9:00 p.m., and I’m in the Express Lane at our friendly neighborhood Albertsons. (Albertsons' Motto: If we can’t win you over with our high prices, we’ll make ourselves so stinking convenient, you’d have to be a real weenie to drive by us on your way to another grocer.) I wasn’t planning to be out, so I’m dressed quite casually. Quite casually. Very, extremely casually. To be honest, if I were dressed any less, I’d be in the shower. (Or in the YMCA locker room, but I digress.)

I have my 10 Items or Less on the conveyer belt, and I’m waiting my turn, when I hear voices and glance over my shoulder to see who’s behind me. Lo and behold, it’s Brother Dustin Hoffman* and his little daughter. (*Name has been changed.) Brother Hoffman is in the bishopric of a neighboring ward in our stake, and I’ve known him, more as an acquaintance than anything, really, for about three years. Katie and I spoke at a fireside in his ward a couple of years back, and afterwards he invited us to go to dinner with him and his wife sometime. (P.S. We never went.) And since I’ve been in our bishopric, I’ve seen him at various and sundry meetings where we’ve chatted casually from time to time; so, while I wouldn’t call us “friends,” I’d say we are definitely “friendly.”

But not tonight.

First, I’m very self conscious because I’m dressed like I’ve wandered from my bed to the bathroom, and second, well, Brother Hoffman has caught me – ME, a fellow bishopric member – engaged in the reading of an intriguing article out of the cheap and tawdry publication known as People. (Nick and Jessica. I just really thought those two kids were going to make it. And my heart aches when I think of the strain that Dukes of Hazzard has had on their relationship.)

“Oh, hey!” I nervously call over my shoulder to Brother Hoffman, as I fumble with the magazine and try to hide it behind a copy of Newsweek. (Why a single copy of Newsweek was on the “impulse buy” rack – the same rack as People – is beyond me, and my only explanation is that blessings come in all shapes and sizes.)

Brother Hoffman pipes up, and in full confidence says, “Hey Robert! I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Now, for those of you keeping score at home…there’s a good reason Brother Hoffman almost didn’t recognize me. My name is not Robert. Never has been. But I’m not really in a chit-chatty mood, don’t have any real reason to correct him, and now I don’t have to worry about being judged for my recreational reading as an added bonus. So I don’t say anything. I just wave and turn back to face the cashier, who is helping the person in front of me. But Brother Hoffman can’t leave good enough alone.

“I didn’t know you lived on this side of town?” he says.

Ah, nuts. I’m stuck in line and I’m being dragged into chitchat. And I’m at a slight disadvantage, because I’m suddenly a fictional character with a background that only Brother Hoffman knows.

“Yeah…yeah. Live over off Sasparilla. How about you? You still in the Elkhorn Springs Second Ward?”

Brother Hoffman cocks his head back, and while his smile stays intact, there’s suddenly a question behind it. “Yes…” he slowly answers. And it occurs to me that Robert is most likely not LDS and wouldn’t know that Brother Hoffman is in a “ward.”

“Oh,” I say. “Great.” And now I’ve got to quickly strike up conversation to distract him before he says, “You aren’t Robert are you? Why didn’t you say so? What’s wrong with ya, boy?”

So I say, “Yep, we just moved, actually, and now we live just one street over from your sister, Destiny Child*.” (*Name has been changed.)

Strike Two. Apparently Robert doesn’t know Destiny, and may not even know that Brother Hoffman has a sister. He is just staring at me now. Just a long, quiet, blank stare. I’m starting to panic. I feel like he’s about to point at me and say, “That’s him, officer, that’s him. I’m positive. That’s the impostor that was reading People in the Express Lane at Albertsons!”

The longer the moment lasts, the more I anticipate him calling my bluff. I start to do a character sketch in my mind. Who is this Robert? Would he buy gum? Should I put some on the conveyer belt? Would he be reading celebrity gossip? Should I ask Brother Hoffman his feelings about the Pitt/Anniston split? Is that something Robert would do? Does Robert swear? Probably not in front of little girls, so that option is out. I’ve got to think! The tension is so thick; you could cut it up and sell it in the Albertsons bakery at $8 a slice.

Finally, when my face is about to burst through my forehead, the cashier speaks up. “Sir,” she says to Brother Hoffman. “Sir, would you mind tying that cord up behind you, you’ll be my last customer and I’m closing the lane.”

“Oh, sure,” he says. “That’s easier than having to tell the person behind me that you’re closed and won’t help them.”

“Yeah,” I chime in, “the last thing you want is to be trapped in an uncomfortable situation.” Inside I think I am the funniest man alive, but my face is stone cold, as if there is no irony in my comment.

Finally it is my turn at the register. I am almost home free. The cashier asks for my special “Albertsons Card” that gives me fabulous discounts and incredible cash savings, which I gladly hand over. Once the card is in her hand, however, I recall that their canned response whenever they swipe my card is “Thank you, Kenneth.” NO! Their polite, new age customer service mumbo-jumbo is going to completely foul up my escape!

I start to weigh my options. One, I can correct the cashier, “Oh, it’s ‘Robert Kenneth,’ actually. But the ‘Robert’ is silent.” Or, “Oh, that’s funny, I have my twin brother’s Albertsons card. Hmm – this happens all the time. Do you know my twin? He’s in the Elk Ridge bishopric. I think he spoke at a fireside in your ward once with his wife.” One thing is for sure; I will quickly sell this cashier down the river before letting Brother Hoffman know that I am not Robert.

Then I start to panic double as I realize that at any second, somebody I know could enter the store and call me by name. What then? Do I deny who I am? If my neighbor walks in and says, “Hey Ken!” do I snub them? Do I look at Brother Hoffman and say, “I think he’s talking to you.”

I turn and focus on the cashier. I’ve got to deal with her first, and once I’m done, I can bolt for the door and run out into the night.

She starts, “Thank you, Ke—”

“No, thank YOU!” I interrupt, grabbing the receipt out of her hand, hoisting my groceries in my other hand, and heading for the door. For the sake of keeping up with appearances, I turned back once more to Brother Hoffman and said, “Have a good night.”

“We’ll see you later,” he said, still looking puzzled. He’s not going to let this go away. I can tell right now. I’m just curious if our next meeting will be at Albertsons or at a meeting at church. In the meantime, I am going to have to do some serious research on this Robert guy.