I consider myself lucky. Most days I am not afraid to take my kids to the store. They are reasonably well behaved. Sure, they have had theirr moments when, were it not for surveillance cameras, I would have bolted for the car without them. What parent has not felt that way. Yet, 9 times out of 10 I know that we can go to the store and I don't have to worry about being asked to leave because my kids are freaking out the other patrons. That all changes, however, if they get the faintest hint of free samples. Imagine the hoards of Genghis Khan about to plunder, or a plague of locust descending on an open field of wheat, and you get a sense of what my offspring are capable of.
I have no real clue where their approach to free samples comes from. It is not like I starve them at home. We don't deprive them of sweets (though they do have to clean their plate of fruits and veggies to get desert). I have tried to instill in them to value of that which is free. We were walking down the street last fall and some local merchants had hired a DJ to stand on the sidewalk and promote their businesses. When the DJ saw my kids and I coming his way he called us over, asked us our names, and then gave us a $10 gift certificate to the local candy store. To this day, if you ask my children, they will tell you that they only thing in the world better than chocolate is free chocolate. Still, the gusto with which my kids attack free samples goes beyond anything I can take credit for. It is instinctive, primal, and at times a bit scary.
At least their enthusiasm for free samples does not spill over into their being selfish. They each take only one and then move on to their next target. What is interesting to watch is their reaction when there are not enough samples to go around. If there is one sample available, the rules are pretty simple - whoever gets there first wins. Since two-thirds of my children are shut-out it somehow seems fair in their minds. The majority lost out, so time to look for the next free cookie sample. But when there are two samples left, well, three kids and two pieces of cake creates an interesting dynamic. Someone, and the key word here is one, is going to get left out. Misery loves company. None of my kids enjoys being the only one without icing on their face.
It is at these times that something very, very strange happens to my kids. Something that I am not sure how to handle. In the dark days of yesteryear, when I was a lad, watching one of my siblings miss out on a free sample was half the fun. Free piece of candy - great. Free piece of candy while watching your little brother have a meltdown because he did not get one - absolutely priceless. This is the type of behaviour I expect from my kids, only they don't seem all that interested in rubbing salt in an open wound. Don't get me wrong, they know each others buttons and spend countless hours pushing them, but when it comes to free samples they get all...I don't know...compassionate.
When one of my kids misses out on the free sample lottery, the others will often start searching for some other freebie (after they have devoured their free sample, of course). If they find one they call out to their sibling and then, and this is the part that really confuses me, if there are not enough to go around they will let the one who did not get the last sample go first. I am not making this up people. I have seen it with my own eyes. I tell you these kids would never have survived growing up with me as their brother. So how is it that they seem to be doing so well with me as their dad?
Naturally, many of you will want to credit my significant other for any displays of kindness and caring that our children exhibit. While not completely unfounded, this explanation would require you to ignore my wife's own childhood exploits (she has three siblings as well). The stories I could tell (but won't because she reads this blog and I want to sleep in my own bed tonight). Suffice to say she was no angel.
Parenting is an unfathomable mystery. Obviously there are direct connections that can be made between the actions of a parent and the behavior of their child. Yet, some things about raising children are beyond the realm of simple explanation. I am convinced that there is a God for no other reason than my children seem to be able to transcend so many of the issues that plague my own life. They are not perfect, believe me. Still, I watch them and realize that in spite of my own deficiencies they are turning out to be people who embody so much of what I preach about (I know God has to be involved because they never, never, listen to me preach. Ever. Under any circumstances. To be honest, I am at a loss to name a time when they do listen to me...about anything).
So, as bizarre as it may sound, I actually look forward to taking my kids to places where there are free samples. Not only do I get a tasty treat to eat, but I get to bask in the glow of my children being compassionate. Oh, and if there are enough free samples I might not have to make dinner. Sweet.
Showing posts with label compassion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label compassion. Show all posts
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, August 9, 2010
I Miss Telemarketers
A few years ago my wife and I signed up for the national Don't Call registry. We did so for two reasons. First, we dropped our land line a few years back and did not want telemarketers using up our cell phone minutes. Second, and perhaps more importantly, I hate telemarketers. With a passion. Now that they no longer call I kind of miss them, but not for the reasons you might think.
As much as I despise telemarketers they did perform a useful function in my life. Namely, they let me blow off steam. I come home from work and I'm not having a good day. There was traffic, construction, I had to wait 45 minutes for the doctor, etc... Then the phone rings. It is some strange person calling from some strange land like India or Iowa and they want to take up my valuable time trying to sell me something I have no interest in buying. So I take this opportunity, this gift if you will, to release all of my pent-up anger and frustration. "When you were a kid did you imagine that your life would be such a failure?" I snidely ask at the first opportunity. Or, "No wonder you can't get a date with a voice like that." And perhaps my favorite, which I reserve just for the guys, "So how many [fill in with product name] does your pimp make you sell each night before you get to go home?" They hang up and I feel better. For the moment, anyway.
Venting on telemarketers was much safer road rage. I am not a small guy, but I understand that cutting off the car in front of me may have some adverse consequences. Like a 6'8", 340lb very angry man who wants to see if in fact I will break open like a pinata when he hits me with a baseball bat. Telemarketers are not a threat. They are faceless voices on the other end of a phone line. They are not people, after all, they are telemarketers. Right?
In an impersonal society we treat people, well, impersonally. Granted, calling me at mealtime to sell me timeshares in Fort Wayne is not a sign of respect. Yet that does not give me a free pass to pretend that the person calling is entitled to have my spleen vented all over them. It is strange, but when we think there are no consequences, or at least no direct consequences that involve baseball bats, we can get pretty cruel. Inhumane. Downright unchristian.
I don't know what Jesus would do about telemarketers and to be honest I don't really care. I know what I am supposed to do. I also know that there have been days when I really didn't want to treat that person calling me with anything that resembled compassion, grace or love. And that is why I miss telemarketers. They force me to be the person I am called to be. Jesus said to love your enemies. But what about your enemy who can't hurt you, who you can't see? That is tough, but just as important. What we do when we think there are no consequences tells a great deal about who we are and what we believe. Real love for other people shows up when someone calls you while your children are screaming, you have a massive headache, and your dinner is getting cold. Valentines Day love is easy. Thursday night telemarketer love is the real deal.
Alright, if you have read this far you are entitled to know that I never really said such nasty things to telemarketers. Usually I just muttered something under my breath and hung up. But I thought the lines up and I wanted to say them. Badly. Which in some ways makes me no better than the people who have teed off on telemarketers. But it might also mean that God's grace has a hold on my tongue if not my heart. I hope that is true. I also hope to never, ever, get a call from a telemarketer again.
As much as I despise telemarketers they did perform a useful function in my life. Namely, they let me blow off steam. I come home from work and I'm not having a good day. There was traffic, construction, I had to wait 45 minutes for the doctor, etc... Then the phone rings. It is some strange person calling from some strange land like India or Iowa and they want to take up my valuable time trying to sell me something I have no interest in buying. So I take this opportunity, this gift if you will, to release all of my pent-up anger and frustration. "When you were a kid did you imagine that your life would be such a failure?" I snidely ask at the first opportunity. Or, "No wonder you can't get a date with a voice like that." And perhaps my favorite, which I reserve just for the guys, "So how many [fill in with product name] does your pimp make you sell each night before you get to go home?" They hang up and I feel better. For the moment, anyway.
Venting on telemarketers was much safer road rage. I am not a small guy, but I understand that cutting off the car in front of me may have some adverse consequences. Like a 6'8", 340lb very angry man who wants to see if in fact I will break open like a pinata when he hits me with a baseball bat. Telemarketers are not a threat. They are faceless voices on the other end of a phone line. They are not people, after all, they are telemarketers. Right?
In an impersonal society we treat people, well, impersonally. Granted, calling me at mealtime to sell me timeshares in Fort Wayne is not a sign of respect. Yet that does not give me a free pass to pretend that the person calling is entitled to have my spleen vented all over them. It is strange, but when we think there are no consequences, or at least no direct consequences that involve baseball bats, we can get pretty cruel. Inhumane. Downright unchristian.
I don't know what Jesus would do about telemarketers and to be honest I don't really care. I know what I am supposed to do. I also know that there have been days when I really didn't want to treat that person calling me with anything that resembled compassion, grace or love. And that is why I miss telemarketers. They force me to be the person I am called to be. Jesus said to love your enemies. But what about your enemy who can't hurt you, who you can't see? That is tough, but just as important. What we do when we think there are no consequences tells a great deal about who we are and what we believe. Real love for other people shows up when someone calls you while your children are screaming, you have a massive headache, and your dinner is getting cold. Valentines Day love is easy. Thursday night telemarketer love is the real deal.
Alright, if you have read this far you are entitled to know that I never really said such nasty things to telemarketers. Usually I just muttered something under my breath and hung up. But I thought the lines up and I wanted to say them. Badly. Which in some ways makes me no better than the people who have teed off on telemarketers. But it might also mean that God's grace has a hold on my tongue if not my heart. I hope that is true. I also hope to never, ever, get a call from a telemarketer again.
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