The Tale of Two Messiahs

Saturday was a glorious autumnal day here. We had an afternoon open house party for our new church's staff to thank them for such a warm welcome (more about our new church later). We served all kinds of puddings (desserts like brownies and pies and biscuits [cookies]) and hot apple cider that I made in the Crock Pot (no big secret: just apple juice, cinnamon, cloves, and orange slices). No one had actually had hot apple cider before, so it was a complete joy for me to see people enjoying it and asking for seconds. We had great time getting to know them better, and our friend Sam even got Nathan to tell the small crowd his now legendary deer story.


Serendipitously, Sam and Emily were not able to use some tickets they were given to see Handel's Messiah at the cathedral that night (I told you about the Christmas bullet train, didn't I?), so we greedily snatched them from their hands and skipped up to the cathedral an hour after the party. 


I have to tell you, I was on the edge of tears for the first 20 minutes. It was that beautiful. There was something about being sitting up close and hearing that period's music played on period instruments in that cathedral with those amazing acoustics. The soloists were so young (the super skinny bass soloist was still in college at Durham!), but they were all just fantastic. The alto was a more porcine male (the piece was originally written to be sung by a male counter-tenor, I'm told) and reminded me of Agustus Gloop.

"Agustus, sweetheart, save some for later!"

Nathan actually took me to see Messiah for Christmas our first year of marriage, and it resulted in rather dire (now funny... but not really) circumstances.  Here's how it went: 


We both were in an especially cheery mood because I was just out of school for Christmas and had gotten an unexpected bonus from work the previous day. Every year at Whitefield, the parents get together and give the teachers a special love offering. That particular year it was $300 in cash. That's no pocket change! 


Anyway, Nathan parked my Matrix right across from the Woodruff Arts Center on 15th Street on a cold December night just before Christmas. There was a sign with a picture of a car being towed in front of us, but when I pointed it out he said, "I've lived in Atlanta my whole life. I know where to park." I, being the submissive wife I am, decided not to fight it. We had a lovely time with his four siblings seeing the show. Afterwards, we said our goodbyes and walked back out to where our car was parked, emphasis on WAS. Nathan ran down 15th Street with his hands on his head muttering, "No, no, no, no, no..." As I prophesied, the car had been towed.


By the way, I did not say, "I told you so," but I thought it.  A LOT.


We got a ride back to our house with all of his siblings (that would be six of us total) and tons of dirty laundry and computer parts in Andrew's nasty car. Yes, Andrew. Nasty. We stumbled home, completely dejected and very worried. My car was not yet registered in the state of Georgia, and I didn't remember off hand where the title was. We told the story to a family friend in the military who was staying with us for the night.  He was stationed at a nearby base and was due to fly home to Bakersfield the next morning. Thankfully, he said we could use his car, which was to be parked at our place for a couple of weeks, for as long as we needed.


Nathan and I lay in bed that night, scared because we couldn't find the title to prove that we owned the car. I was particularly irked because my purse, hairbrush, and makeup were inside the vehicle. In the darkness I said, "I'll sleep peacefully knowing that you'll take care of everything." Nathan didn't sleep, thinking, "We're screwed!"


The next morning, a Sunday, Nathan dropped me off at church for music practice and went to the towing yard but couldn't convince anyone to just hand over the car without the title. Fortunately, he was able to convince someone to let him get my purse out. Unfortunately, his truck wouldn't start. Fortunately, the big guys in the towing yard gave him a push start down the hill and it managed to sputter to life.


Nathan spent the next several days on the phone with just about everyone he could think of to try to get it back. He tried every line in the book from "I'm a pastor and she's a teacher!" to "We're leaving for California in three days, and we can't afford to rack up $100 per day charges for it to sit in the towing yard for two weeks!" to "But it's Christmas!" Some saint from somewhere pulled a few strings and said we could come down to the police station to pick it up. I burst into tears and immediately sent her flowers.


We went down to the property recovery unit in a very scary looking warehouse downtown. Among other interesting characters, the gentleman in front of us asked the woman at the reception window (complete with iron bars) for his gas mask and bullet proof vest back. If there ever was one of those "I don't belong here!" moments, that was one for me. After getting the appropriate paperwork, we went down to the towing yard. We got the keys and a bill for three days at $100 each day... that's $300. Oh, and they only took cash.


Bye bye, Whitefield bonus. It was nice knowing you.


You can only imagine my irritation, but it was a good lesson for both of us. Nathan doesn't park on 15th Street anymore, and I don't tell Nathan when I've come into any money anymore.


The End