Get Crunk

I asked God NOT to give me a boy child. I promise I did.

I know it was wrong. I know you should be happy with whatever you get from God: good, bad, sickness, health, rich, poor.

But instead, out of my limited knowledge, I prayed for daughters. And God obliged... for a while. Then he gave me Russ.

I thought, at first, Russ might be God's punishment for my girl request.
He kind of showed up at my house one day, like a stray cat (sorry Russ). And he didn't leave.

I would come in from grocery shopping and he would be there taking phone calls, checking his email, asking me what we were having for dinner. He borrowed tennis shorts and shoes when he needed them. He ate what he wanted. He showered. He napped.

He introduced us to all kinds of crazy words and sayings that remain in our vocabulary:
"GET CRUNK!" (when you really just needed peace and quiet)
"Oh, that's nastificrocious!" (when finding some rancid leftover in the fridge)
"Hello, this is Shakiki." (when answering our house phone)

Dang, I miss that guy.

If you were assigning categories, he certainly wouldn't fit in mine. He has done numerous things I have not had the pleasure -- or the horror -- of doing. A few of the least dangerous:
eating an entire habanero pepper in exchange for $10,
climbing the water tower on 84 East,
irritating gang members in Heidelberg,
flying airplanes,
playing in the state soccer championship in a thunderstorm.

Russ has moved on, but I doubt he will ever grow up (please, no) or be far from our hearts.

Russ is on my top ten list of good people favorites and all-time best friends.
He's the kind of person you would pick to spend your birthday with or take on a trip to the mountains because he's so... much.... fun.

And Russ is the metaphor -- the living picture -- of a blessing you would miss if God only gave you what you asked for.