Gleanings from the grill

It is amazing what you will do when you are young and cash strapped.  Pride is expensive, folks.  If you want to play you got to get paid.  So, in the deep recesses of my employment history lurk a few jobs that have, I hope, made up for the sins of my past lives (because they sure did not pay me that well in this one).  Each one has taught me valuable lessons about the benefits of labor unions, OHSA, and getting paid in cash (paychecks bounce, I discovered the hard way).  And yes, along the way I gathered some important insights about life and faith which I am sure my overlords, er...employers, would argue was part of my compensation.  Right, and I am going to play 007 in the next James Bond flick.
I started working when I was 13 but I did not land my first steady job until I was 16 (something about child labor laws).  I, like tens of thousands of Americans, donned the polyester pants and visor cap bearing the logo of the Golden Arches.  For the next six years Ronald McDonald and I got to know each other very, very well.  When I finally called it a fast food career, I knew how do to everything in the restaurant.  I could open, close, count the cash drawers, flip the burgers, fry the fries and chicken nuggets, make salads and biscuits (yes, from scratch!), serve customers at the front counter or drive through, supervise the unloading of the stock truck and, try not to laugh to hard at this one, even do birthday parties.  Those of you that know me will, I'm sure, get hours of laughs imagining me with a room full of children trying to play party hostess.  Mercifully there are no pictures...that I am aware of.
There were some jobs at McDonald's that I kind of enjoyed doing (like standing in the shade with a clipboard in my hand watching the other employees unload the stock truck in 95 degree heat.  Those were some good times right there).  Others I tried to avoid like the plague.  Once again, pride is for the rich and famous.  You want paid you have to work the hours.  And many of those hours occurred on Friday and Saturday nights.
When you are in your late teens and trying to have something like a social life nothing crimps your style like having to work till 11pm or later on the weekends.  McDonald's is not the type of job where you can just punch out and leave.  There is the whole uniform thing, coupled with the lingering odor of grease that makes you less than desirable to the opposite sex (those of your same gender don't find you that aromatic, either).  When your shift is over you need time to get a quick shower and put on some clothes that your significant other finds remotely attractive.  So, you start shutting things down and cleaning as early in the evening as possible.  The store I worked in had two grills.  By 10pm one was already cleaned up and out of commission.  Come 10:30 and we were down to half a grill.  10:50, and Elvis had left the building.
And that is when it would happen.  The stupid drive through buzzer would go off and someone would want a freakin' Big Mac or some other equally unhealthy menu item that would require me to, I don't know, use the grill I just cleaned!  Or, and this was the worst, a bus, or two, or three would pull in filled with high school kids.  At close there would often only be one of us in the grill area so when the lobby filled-up with hungry teenagers you knew that your own evening just went up in flames.  Stupid high school sports!
In those moments when my weekend went down the proverbial toilet I discovered some profound universal truths.  First, the Wendy's down the street needed a much bigger sign, one that would attract people with no lives and the munchies.  Second, I really hate Big Mac's.  Third, your late night hunger needs were my problem.  Not my joy or passion (SpongeBob is a cartoon, people!) or even casual concern.  You were a obstacle, a roadblock, a thorn in my flesh and, on those rare occasions when I actually had a romantic post-work evening planned, you were a thief.  I wanted you to go away, to leave me alone so I could clock out and get on with me life.  There were even moments when I hated you and that half-cooked hamburger I served up was no accident!
In there own way these nights taught me a good bit about being a disciples of Jesus.  Reading through the scriptures you get the sense that Jesus had more than a few late evenings.  Even when he was tired and tried to steal away the crowds always seemed to find him.  I know a little Greek and as best as I can tell there is no reference to Jesus ever slipping someone the proverbial undercooked sandwich.  Even if he was frustrated he always showed care, compassion, and love for those who came to him.  Now, I am not saying working at McDonald's on a Saturday night is the same as what Jesus did (though the whole Bread of Life imagery could be fun to play around with) but my attitude towards other people, people who make demands of my time, is the lesson to be learned. 
Being a follower of Jesus means that people are going to come to me with needs.  They will come at times and places that may not be best for me.  How I treat them in the wee hours of the morning, or when I want to be doing something other than dealing with their pain, will reveal the true depth of relationship to Jesus.  Serving others is a gift, a blessing.  When I lose sight of that, I miss out on so much.
 May you be blessed today with the chance to help someone in need.  May you show great compassion and love to those who come to you.  And, if you are in pain, may you be welcomed not as a problem, but as a child of God.  Because at the end of the day the Kingdom of God is not like McDonald's on a Saturday night.