I have wet pants in a crowded room of people. I am trying to figure out how I can get to the exit door on the far side of a huge ballroom without being even more embarrassed than I already am.

But this story does not start here. In fact, this story is not even about wet pants at all.

Tonight is about giving thanks. I am attending the annual Thanksgiving banquet with some of my friends from Southwest Christian Church in Newnan. This is a big deal. They don’t have a space in their own building with enough room to hold 250 people seated at tables. So, tonight’s event is at the Newnan Center for the Performing Arts.

Marion and I pull into the parking lot a little before 5:00. Nice campus. Massive brick facades flanked with mature trees. The fall colors are vibrant. The bermuda lawn is manicured, clean and neat. The turf is a light tan from the early frost of the season. It feels like Thanksgiving.

We are here an hour early to help with table decorations. There are 32 linen-covered round tables set in rows, each with a brilliant floral centerpiece of yellows and oranges and reds. Candy corn is wrapped in clear plastic at each seat. Every table gets an assortment of small soft pillow-like pumpkins placed around the centerpieces.

I am given instructions. “Take this bag of silk leaves and scatter them on the tables.” I am probably the only tree geek here that recognizes them as oak, maple, and sassafras. They are botanically accurate and festive.

The dessert tables in the back are beginning to fill up. Apple pie. Banana Cake. Pumpkin spice cake. Pumpkin pie. Chocolate squares that might be cake but might be brownies. I’m not sure.

There’s an army of young people dressed in matching T-shirts moving about the room. Sweet tea dispensers are set up on side tables. Buckets of ice are being poured into serving bowls. The serving lines are in the main hallway just outside the ballroom. Overhead, the massive light fixtures are shaped like an open white rosebud facing downward.

“Aren’t those incredible?” Again, I notice the garden element in the décor. I point out to Marion, “That’s a rose.”

She doesn’t share my inspiration. “Can you imagine having to dust those things?”

Eventually, the set-up crew divides by gender. The women are standing and moving about still busy with the details. We old guys are seated around one of the tables talking about how hungry we are.

Terry is sitting across from me with his Stetson hat tight above his ears. Roy has his elbows on the table. Joe is scratching his beard. We notice that the matching black T-shirts all say “Food for Thought” on them. The gentleman next to Terry sums up what we’re all thinking.

“I hope they’ve got more than just food for thought. I could use some food for my belly.”

At 5:45 the doors open, and the buzz of the crowd fills the room. The lights flicker a few times, an indication for us to take our seats. A video about “Gratitude” plays on the big screen up front. The blessing is spoken from the podium, and the meal begins.

There’s one thing I didn’t know in advance. The main focus of this evening is to pay tribute to my good friend James White. I’ve known James since my freshman year of college almost 50 years ago. He sang at my wedding in 1978.

Marion invited me to the dinner. Finding out that James is to be honored for his 40 years of service to this congregation was special, to say the least.

It’s no surprise to anyone who knows James that he protested the idea of having this event to honor him. He is not one to stand up and take credit for anything. All four of the people who spoke about what an influence James has been in their lives acknowledged his humility and his patient service to others.

After college, James and I were also in grad school together. I lived out of town, but when I drove in for classes I’d stay with James and Tony Dyer. They had an apartment in Johnson City, Tennessee where the school was located. Every Monday I would make the 5-hour drive from Cartersville.

I don’t remember if they charged me rent. They just gave me a spare bed. Every week James would fry chicken legs in an iron skillet. And when I got there, I’d make buttermilk biscuits and gravy from scratch. Tony’s job was to eat and clean the kitchen. We made a lot of good memories that year.

James went to Southwest as an intern not long after that. He was hired as the youth minister in 1983. And as they say, the rest is history.

I’ve never stayed in one job for over 40 years, so I can only imagine what that must require of a person. Some people look at ministry as a calling, and I know that is part of what is required. But to stick with one thing for that long requires more. You have to be able to adjust to all the inevitable changes that come and go.

When you work behind the scenes like James has done, when you’re not the guy in the spotlight, there’s a strength of character that comes into play. You have to know who you are and what it is that you want out of life. James has never wanted anything other than to serve the people he loves.

As it was told tonight, he is the guy that shows up when there’s a need. He teaches classes, he handles grief counseling, he organizes and orchestrates ministry in all phases of church life. He is also that guy who sets up tables and chairs and takes out the trash. He doesn’t care about position. In fact, the senior minister here tonight is a product of James’ youth ministry years ago.

The program comes to a close. James is surrounded by friends. Lots of hugs. Lots of thank yous. I wander up front to wait my turn.

There’s a small stage off to one side. Metal frame. The deck is covered with carpet. It’s about the right height for sitting. So, I back up and take a seat.

At first, I thought that the metal frame was just cold on my butt. When James walked over my way and I got up, I realized that the carpet was soaking wet.

“You didn’t sit on that did you?” James was grinning.

I’m pulling at the seat of my pants which are stuck to the hinder parts of my very personal anatomy.

“That stage was used outside last night in the rain,” he says. “Guess it hasn’t dried out, yet.”

We talked for a minute. I started backing up for the door. Marion, between uncontrollable fits of laughter, was gracious enough to attempt to cover my backside with her purse.

Thanks James. Thanks for an amazing contribution in ministry.

Thanks for one of the more awkward exits from a public building in my life.