Paper or plastic?

I feel as if I've been away for weeks. Sickness struck us, and I'm still blowing my nose and listening to my son cough. We survived, though.

During the hubbub of sickness combined with Thanksgiving preparations, I recently found myself waiting to check out at the nearby Giant Eagle store. Busy shoppers were pushing carts around the store, looking frantic, checking lists and store flyers and then plowing forward. I stood in a self-checkout line behind a tall, willowy blonde woman with a rather low-cut shirt on.

I didn't notice the shirt at first; I was looking at her cute little boy, maybe 18 months old, who sat in the front of the cart but tried more than once to stand until the woman instructed him to sit. "No, no, sit," she said. while she tried to unload items from her cart onto the belt.

I watched this exchange, thinking that she ought not to wear such a low-cut shirt to the grocery store, thinking that 13 years from now, all her son's friends might want to gather at his house in hopes of getting a glimpse of cleavage. I mentally shook my head at her (I'm not a nice person, really—I know this—and I admit without hesitation that I most definitely need a savior so I have a chance), and I thought about changing lines. I always change lines—it's an impatient behavior that I firmly believe is inherited—and for that moment, I was contemplating switching lanes. Perhaps I could skip over to the 15-items-or-less line, and I could drop in behind that old lady and zip right through...

And then another woman pulled in behind me. Oh golly. Now I was kind of stuck, unless I was willing to ask the new woman to move. (I wasn't.) And I felt, too, an inexplicable urge to just stay put. It was fine. Stop being so rushed all the time, the urge said. The little boy in the cart was trying to climb out again, and this time the woman spoke to him in a foreign tongue. I'm terrible with languages, so I'm not certain which language it was: Swedish? Norwegian? German? Are those all Germanic? Oh, I should have paid more attention in linguistics!!! I felt a twinge of annoyance, partly at myself (because I couldn't begin to identify the tongue) and partly at this slim, pretty, blonde creature in her low blouse with her darling boy who reminded me of my darling boy. The one who spends his days in school now. Sigh.

I looked at Ms. Low-cut, and the urge to stay put in line became a voice. Why don't you help her out? said the voice.

Me: What? Her? Low-cut?

Voice: Yes, of course.

Me: What if I insult her? She's foreign! What if she gets mad at me and starts swearing at me in another language?

Voice: Then let her. So what? At least you will have tried. Everyone in this store is in a hurry, but you all stand here watching people struggle. How pointless is that?

Me: Yeah, but, but... Oh. Okay.

And then, with my face feeling a bit warm and uncomfortable, I asked her (I had to speak twice because she didn't hear me the first time): "Excuse me, could I bag those for you?"

She looked at me, doubtful, a bit surprised, but after a pause she replied, "If you don't mind, that would be great." Slight accent, but clear English. I had no trouble understanding her.

I slipped past her and began putting things in bags, then into her cart. The little boy watched me with big eyes, not smiling but not unfriendly either. She commented that he was a busy little boy who could not sit still for long, and I agreed that kids get bored when shopping. I shared that I was missing my little guy, who was in kindergarten now; I couldn't believe how quickly it had gone. She agreed; she had two older girls, and she understood quite well that the years flew by. She scanned, I bagged, we chatted, and it was such a better use of my time than standing behind her judging her. At one point it crossed my mind that my purse and wallet were sitting back in my own cart, and that the woman behind me in line had overheard the entire exchange and could right now be casually sneaking her hand into my giant bag and stealing my identity. That would be just the sort of thing that would happen, right when you're trying to do a good deed, right?

But it didn't happen. No one stole my identity. No one swore at me in another language. In fact, we got the order checked out much faster and she thanked me as she left. And that was that.

Why have I never done this before? Why do I feel more comfortable standing around huffing at someone and thinking unkind thoughts than I do offering to help them? We're all in this together. I doubt I'd be moved to help every shopper, because some of them are downright inconsiderate and obnoxious. But honestly? I should probably try to help them, too. I never know what battle they're fighting, right?

I'm going to try to remember how much better it felt to reach out to someone instead of condemning them behind folded arms. I'll need to hold onto that feeling, that desire to serve, as I move through this holiday season. I'll have to remind myself daily that each one of us needs grace every morning.

And sometimes, that grace is delivered in an unexpected way.

This is why we need a savior

I’m becoming aware that, in my advancing age, I am growing less tolerant of people who will not assert themselves and rise above circumstances. I guess I should admit that I never was terribly good at dealing with that type of person anyway. I’ve always been the impatient person who doesn’t understand, the insensitive person who wants to grab folks by shoulders or bootstraps or whatever I can get hold of. I don’t comprehend fear of making plans with others, inactivity in the face of confusion, even hesitation in general.

And I need to. I really need to try. Not only because it would make me a better-rounded and wiser individual, but also because those same people of whom I am intolerant probably find me to be quite abrasive and harsh, too quick to act, not nearly meditative enough. And they’re every bit as right about me as I am about them.

We all fall short. All. We all hurt each other, fail each other, disappoint each other daily. We are most of us doing the best we can, but we are never going to rise regularly to the occasion of being all we should be. It’s just not in our nature; it’s not natural for us to be good. That’s how nature is manifested, right? Something that’s natural is simply being faithful to its true nature. Since our true nature is fallen and sinful, we are doomed never to measure up.

But guess what?! We don’t need to. Isn’t that awesome? Of course we keep trying, we keep asking for help, we keep on striving to be better and stronger and all that. But when we can’t do it (notice I said when, not if), we need only ask for forgiveness and receive it. New mercies every morning. Fresh grace bestowed upon request.

The only requirement is that your request be sincere, from your heart of hearts. And when you truly understand how fallen you are, we are, then how can your request be anything but absolutely sincere? When you get it, it’s easy to be humble and broken and prostrate before your Creator.

Romans 5:11
Not only is this so, but we also rejoice in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.

Romans 6:23
For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:39
Neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Happy Easter!

Grace for each day

My little guy and I had just pulled up to the drive-thru window at the bank. I was congratulating myself on having beaten the lunch rush (it was just before noon on Friday, a time which is notorious for long lines at any bank). The gal on the other side of the window—am I still permitted to call them tellers, or will that insult someone?—apologized to me as soon as she’d accepted my papers through the little window exchange tray. She explained that she had to go take care of the customer at her window inside the bank first, and then she’d handle my transaction. I nodded and smiled in acknowledgement, and she turned around and went to the other customer.

The other customer’s transaction took longer than normal, and a couple of minutes ticked by with us sitting there by the window, waiting. It was astoundingly hot outside, and since I’d been prepared to conduct business, we’d turned off the air conditioning and had windows down. The steaminess became more and more oppressive, and I started to get a tad cranky. So much for beating the rush, I was thinking. I hope she comes back soon. I was also thinking, I can’t leave because I already gave her my request, including my driver’s license.

At some point while we waited, a mini-van had pulled into line behind us. I hadn’t noticed it, but now I did…because there seemed to be a loud voice emanating from the van. I listened more carefully, just in time to hear the next phrase clearly: “What the f*!? is going on up there?” I checked the rear view, and felt a grip of anger in my chest when I realized the man was yelling at me. He could see my arm hanging out the window, could see that nothing appeared to be happening at the window, and apparently he was having a bad day because the tirade continued. “What the f!?@ is taking so f*@#ing long?” Some of the words were too muffled to identify, but what I did hear was foul and rude.

By now, the teller had returned to my transaction and, because it was a simple one, she finished it quickly and returned my receipt and license to me; she apologized again for the wait and asked if there was anything else she could do for me. I really, really wanted to say to her, “Yes, please, can you tell the fellow behind me that the wait was not my fault?” But I didn’t. I just shook my head, took my stuff, and pulled out of line; the guy was still shouting obscenities at me even as we left the bank parking lot. (Thankfully, Marcus didn’t seem to hear him.)

Now, what causes that? The man in question wouldn’t stand out in a crowd; he was a nondescript middle-aged guy, driving a relatively new mini-van. Was there something else wrong in his life? Was the small delay at the bank simply the straw that broke his figurative back? Could he not see that I, too, was a captive at that window as much as he was? Even the girl working the window couldn’t really be blamed; she was being asked to handle too much, was probably no happier about than I was—I’m sure she wouldn’t choose to schedule herself to work two busy lines at once.

Oddly enough, as we drove away (I was actually shaking a bit, I was so irritated), there suddenly flashed in my mind a little image. It’s a page from a lesson covered in my boy’s Sunday school class, a page that he colored primarily with orange and red crayon. I know it well because I see it frequently—it’s hanging on his bedroom door, where most take-homes are posted temporarily while we decide whether or not the piece should be kept forever. This particular page is a picture of Paul and Silas in jail, and of their jailer, who holds the keys to their cell as he listens to them singing praises to God. The caption is something simple—“Paul and Silas sing to God from jail.” (Acts 16: 16-40)

And it hit me, that little colored picture, in a way that studying the story from the book of Acts never did. Here I am, getting all worked up about a guy calling me some names because he’s an impatient jerk, and here these disciples were being thrown in jail for ordering spirits out of people and proclaiming what they believed to be God’s truth. They hadn’t even done anything wrong, to my way of thinking, yet they were beaten, dumped in a cell, put in chains. And their reaction? To sing. They didn’t try to tell the jailer they were being treated unjustly. They didn’t start a riot in the jail. They didn’t cry on each other’s shoulder or complain bitterly about the situation or write a tell-all book about their ordeal. They sang. Praises. Sincere praises.

That is pretty awesome when you think about it.

I can’t fathom being able to do that… except by the grace of God. I can’t even handle some common, everyday verbal abuse by a stranger whom I’ll likely never see again.

Suddenly, driving away from that bank, from that hostile but pathetic man, I felt a bit sheepish about my lack of spiritual stamina. I have much to learn about being gracious in the face of humanity. My only hope is a grace that is most certainly not my own. A grace that I can only hope someone extends to me in my hour of need—or in my own hour of being a jerk. Because those do roll around for all of us, you know. For some more than others, I won’t argue with you about that, but we all wear the jerk hat on occasion.

Thankfully, His grace is sufficient.

NOTE: If you have any interest in the concept of praise, our pastor (Pastor Rock, as he’s fondly known) has spoken several times about just that subject. The sermons are all online for your listening pleasure…and education. I’ve learned so much from this man; he knows his Bible, and he’s just the best and most humble teacher. I encourage you to have a listen for yourself. Go to

http://www.acac.net/sermons.html

and scroll down to any of these dates:

10/14/07
10/28/07
09/16/07
09/23/07