As I loaded the groceries onto the conveyor belt at the local Food 4 Less, my aching body prayed this would be the last time I’d have to schlep groceries home for a few weeks.
The kid who hopped in line behind me couldn’t have been more than 17 – clean cut with a gallon of milk and a carton of eggs. With a smile that was just infectious he struck up a conversation and asked if he could help me load my haul onto the belt. This kid was so ridiculously kind that for a moment I forgot about the searing siatica pain radiating down my leg, among other less blog-worthy symptoms.
After a brief conversation while bagging our groceries, I asked his name. Wouldn’t it be a fun story if he were named one of the names that we had prepared for our baby boy.
“It’s Nevelyn,” he said. “Like Evelyn with an N on the front and a little more oomph on the ‘Leeeen’ part. And yours? …”
Well that wasn’t what I was expecting at all.
After a little more small talk and a joke about how his parents really wanted a girl, we said our goodbyes.
Driving away, I suddenly wanted to be a better person. The family begging on the grocery store corner got what little change I had in my wallet. I never do that. I smiled.
Choosing a name for a child is stressful beyond belief. There is the ever-present fear that we could ruin him for life with the wrong joke-attracting name. But then if someone can name their kid Nevelyn and have him turn out that nice, we probably don’t have much to worry about at all.
