Good Ol’ What’s Her Name

Peter and I were having our usual breakfast at the Hungry Fox early on a Monday morning. An elderly couple across the aisle from us also enjoyed their breakfast, as did a single elderly woman sitting in the booth just ahead of them, her back to their table.

Our server, always a kick to be around, kibitzed with us. We had been embarrassed at a previous breakfast because neither of us could remember her name even though she serves us almost every Monday. I was embarrassed to ask.

Waiting until she was nearby, I asked Peter if he had had any nicknames as a kid. I shared some I’d been called: Stretch, Hands, Rodfoot, and Hot Rod. I then turned to her and asked if she had any nicknames. She laughed and said, “Just the obvious one, Janna Banana.”

Bingo! We had her name.

She moved to another table, and Peter said, “You planned that whole nickname thing just to get her name, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “It worked.”

Peter was amazed. “That was pure genius. I’m so impressed.”

I agreed. I thought it was pretty smart of me, too.

I was disappointed with myself that I hadn’t been able to remember her name. I think it’s hugely important to remember people’s names. I love it when people remember mine.

On this particular Monday we were enjoying recalling my little ruse while Janna waited on us. The old man across the aisle got up and shuffled off, eyes down, in the direction of the restrooms. He was gone for a while, and when he returned, still moving slowly with his head bowed, he walked right past the table where his wife sat and slid onto the bench across from the single woman.

Startled, she looked up and managed to stammer, “Well, hello!”

The gentleman’s wife spoke sharply, “He belongs here … with me.”

The old man was stunned. He apologized profusely while lurching to his feet and stumbling over to where he belonged. His chagrined wife just shook her head and mumbled to herself. Everyone else sat fidgeting in the awkwardness that followed.

I initially assumed some sort of dementia might affect the man, but it wasn’t that. He had just not been paying attention and had messed up big time.

In his defense, the two women looked remarkably alike—same approximate age, same shaggy, bobbed gray-headed hairstyle. Both wore plastic-rimmed glasses. They were similarly dressed. Still, it was an awful gaffe. And absolutely hilarious.

It’s one thing, of course, to not remember a name, but it’s quite a different matter to forget your spouse. I can only imagine the embarrassment.

On my drive home I heard the song “He Knows My Name,” by Tommy Walker. My father died when I was a teenager, and when I first heard that song, the lyrics, particularly of the second verse, touched me deeply: “I have a Father. He calls me his own. He'll never leave me. No matter where I go.” It was a beautiful reminder that God knows my name, that he is intimately involved in my circumstances. He doesn’t walk past me. He doesn’t forsake me.

He knows my name. Yours, too.