Waiting at Tables

For some time now, Nancy and I have frequented a little pizza place here in Abilene.  I know everyone’s tastes differ when it comes to pizza.  Some like New York style, some Chicago, and some Roma, I suppose.  I’m not sure what style this small establishment claims, but I’d say it’s my style.  Sure, I like the variety of pies my friend, Jonathan, dishes out from his Domino’s, too.  But this is my favorite restaurant pizza.

We also like the people who work in this place.  We’ve been impressed with every server who has come our way.  Dining there is a relaxing enjoyable time.

Last Sunday lunch began in a way that could have challenged my 5-star review.  We ordered soft drinks — in paper cups, please.  The server shook her head and told us that the soft drink dispenser was on the blink.  In fact, it was spewing carbonated water on the dining room floor as we spoke.  Sure enough, I looked past her to see two other employees busily mopping, trying to stem the flow.

I ordered tea and Nancy asked for water.  She was determined to hold out hope for that Dr Pepper.  The server apologized, took our pizza and salad order.  Actually, it was Nancy’s salad order — I don’t waste time on greens and such when pizza is close by.  As I stirred my tea and Nancy looked forlornly into her water, I started to apologize.  After all, it had fallen my lot to pick the restaurant today.

About that time, the owner came in the back door.  He grabbed a flashlight and dove under the cabinet.  The fizzy water continued to pour.  He came out once for tools and I suppose for air and then went back in — all the way in.  Within minutes, the machine was repaired, the moppers won their battle against the tide, and soft drinks began flowing.

When our order came, Nancy’s half-salad was extra big, Dr Peppers were before us, and the pizza was the best I have ever had.  Our server was wonderful, too.  So, when she brought the check, I gave her a 35% tip.  She wouldn’t be able to retire on it, but I felt really good about doing it.

I paid with a debit card.  The following day I was checking my account and I noticed that the charge for the meal was posted, but that the tip — my generous tip — was not there.  I glanced up and down the listed transactions thinking perhaps it was handled separately.  Nothing.

All of my good feelings began to dissipate.  Not only had my good deed misfired, but now I felt branded.  How could I face the good pizza people again?  How did getting stiffed on a tip make that server feel?

We all know how it feels, don’t we?  We measure these things in terms of the respect we absorb — or the absence of it.  Nothing destroys relationships more than the absence of respect.

Notice today who is waiting at your table.  Show them some respect.  In fact, go out of your way to honor someone who serves you in any way, small or large.  As for me, I’m thinking I may go back for pizza today — or, if Nancy’s reading, for the salad.  And I’ll be taking two extra big tips . . . in cash.

Pushing for Peace

I’ve been thinking about peace a lot lately.  Personal peace.  Relational peace. Political peace.  World peace.

So it wouldn’t be surprising that I stopped what I was doing to watch a short news clip this morning that featured an “anti-war mom” out with a megaphone in front of a military installation.  I had the sound down during the first part of the story so I couldn’t hear what she was saying.  Apparently though, the real news value wasn’t her protest.

An old gentleman, a sergeant who served many years ago, walked up in the remnants of his dress uniform and began talking with her.  Perhaps he was yelling at her, I couldn’t tell.  In seconds, the demonstrator turned her megaphone directly at him.  When he came very close, she put the instrument directly in his face and, for whatever reason, bumped him with it.

Appearing startled, the man pushed the megaphone away from his face and kept talking.  Other protesters jumped in.  The news person reported that military police had to step in to stop the “shoving” match.

My perception is that no one truly emerged as a victor in that episode.  Sarge was jostled around, even though the news footage didn’t show him ever raise his hands from his side except to push the megaphone away from his face.  The peace folks did quite a bit of shoving.  I find that almost comical — except it isn’t really funny.  True, I didn’t hear what the older gentleman was saying.  And he was quite bold in pushing his way to the epicenter of the demonstration.  Perhaps he was disrespectful.  Perhaps these women felt threatened by him.  I really don’t know all the details.  But I know what it looked like.

Whatever was happening, the whole episode was embarrassing for those of us in the peace business.

And by the way, we’re all in the “peace business.”

From our military personnel in harm’s way to the mother who believes that her calling is to attract attention to armed action she has deemed wrong, every single one of us has been called to peace.  As with most important things, we are called to different roles, however.

We need less shouting and more quiet talking.  We need less pushing to the middle of someone’s space and a more ordered presence close by — available to talk and even to serve those with whom we disagree.  We need fewer megaphones and more cups of cold water.  In short, we need more respect.

And we don’t just need respect out on the picket lines.  What happened to cause these protesters to gather?  What conversations were neglected?  What questiones went unanswered?  And, perhaps, what answers went unheard?

So, you’re a peacemaker.  I want to invite you to push for peace today.  Not with physical force and ugly words.  Push past boundaries you’ve never crossed.  Offer comfort to someone in need.  Be kind.  You’ll be energizing a force far more powerful than any shove you can muster.

 

What if we weren’t wrong . . .

I’m spending time with a group of individuals who are asking questions.  Not the demanding, investigative-type of questions.  More of the shades of wonder-type questions.

I’ve been in other groups (though not for very long) that have asked questions, too.  Invariably, their questions center on the mistakes of the past.  “Why didn’t we see that we were so wrong?”  I’ve stood by in horror as these people, acting in typical mob fashion, have castigated their predecessors — and occasionally themselves.

The constant messages ring out . . .

“We have arrived . . . We have attained a level of wisdom never before seen  . . . We have been lifted from our previous stupor of ignorance . . . We are begotten of fools and ignorant people.”

But what if, in those not too distant moments when we or others believed or thought or felt differently, we weren’t wrong?  What if we or our parents or previous administrations were right for the moment?  What if our state of being was a result of the best we could do or think or feel at that time?

The group I’m now in asks questions that have no room for blame.  Only capacity for gain.  What should we be doing?  Where should we be going? How is the best way to get there?  Who could come with us?  When should we take our next step?

The conversation that follows moves quickly.  By not having to tread and retread the slick pavement of fault, we gain traction in things of importance.  We move more rapidly towards making a difference.

Wait, you say.  What if you or your predecessors were wrong?  What then?  What if you were wrong. . .

Then, I have to believe that a power greater than us will influence the current decision.  I’m convinced that life is not marked by right answers, only best answers for the moment.  And, if that’s true, we can stop worrying about being wrong and invest instead in doing what we hope and pray is best.

Wisdom, in the final setting, is not about being right.  Wisdom is being open to what is right.

On drawing lines

“I’ve just about had enough.”

A phrase most often coupled by parents with “Don’t make me come back there.”

Some how, some way, we all want to set boundaries on what we can live with.  And often, we want to back that up with some promise of force or other action if any one is so bold as to cross that line.  After all, don’t people need to know that invading boundaries invokes consequences?

I’m a boundary-loving person — but not big on consequences.  That’s not to say that I don’t impose consequences.  I’m just not thrilled about it.

Yet, consequences are a natural . . . well, uh . . . consequence of life.  Any action I take or word I speak holds tremendous potential for ripples.  And when the boundaries are the right ones, then the attendant, well-reasoned consequences serve a noble purpose — even if the consequences are difficult.

But what happens if my “line in the sand” is misplaced?

Perhaps because of my distaste for imposing consequences, I’m fairly even-handed in dealing them out.  My difficulty, it seems, comes in staking out the wrong boundaries or sometimes the right boundaries for the wrong reasons.  That’s not to say that the lines I draw aren’t close to the right vicinity.  However, if I can’t explain why they’re there, do I dare defend them?

William Ury in his book, The Power of a Positive No, addresses this problem with his concept of packaging a “No” as three answers.  The first answer is a “Yes!” to yourself and your own values.  The second is a firm “No.” to the person or persons making demands or asking you to shift your boundaries.  The final answer is a “Yes?” that can spur further conversation.

Even though I violated all sorts of writing styles in including them, the punctuation on those answers is important.  The exclamation point on the first “Yes!” shows the enthusiasm and positive energy we should feel in recognizing where our own interests are.  The period on the “No.” makes it a calm, flat statement.  A negative answer is often delivered with anxiety and in a way that provokes argument or, even worse, ends all conversation.  A healthy, well-meaning “No” leaves room for continued dialog.  The question mark on the final “Yes?” invites others into a discussion of what could be.  In other words, “Yes?” says, “Your position or request is outside of my current boundaries.  Could we talk about our common interests and see if there is some place we could agree?  Who knows?  Perhaps our boundaries could use adjustment.”

I’m not sure that my “first yes” in all situations bears that exclamation point.  I doubt whether I’ve always invested in discovering and testing those personal boundaries. Since it’s the first piece of a positive “no,” my work is cut out for me.

I’ll be taking drawing lessons in the near future.  Who would have thought that sketching an exclamation point could present such a challenge?

Sometimes the cookie has to crumble . . .

Way back in my grade school years, my family took a glorious trip to Fort Worth. It was something school-related, involving my brother Carl’s extracurricular activities. But it was a glorious trip for me because I was allowed to miss school.

Adding to the excitement was our good fortune to stay with friends of my parents who lived in Fort Worth. Their youngest daughter was one year older and I thought of her as more of a cousin. We had great times together.

On this particular trip, I remember sitting in the middle of their living room floor playing some board game. My friend’s mom was baking cookies. Normally, smelling those cookies would be true bliss for me. Unfortunately, I developed a tremendous, sickening headache. And the smell of those cookies became forever attached to memories of the pain I was feeling.

Now, I’m not sure what kind of cookies were being baked. For whatever reason, I have associated macadamia nut cookies with that ugly experience. So through the years, I have avoided macadamia nut cookies. A few years ago, in a moment of adult rationality and at the urging of others who claimed that the macadamia nut cookie was at the height of pastry evolution, I tried one. The morsel was barely in my mouth before the nightmare of memories returned. I was back in that living room, smelling those cookies . . . head throbbing, nauseated, miserable.

Earlier this year, in an effort to be healthy, I purchased a can of mixed nuts “specifically formulated” to provide high protein and great satisfaction. I grabbed the can off the shelf, seeing the almonds and the cashews. After I got to my office, however, I noticed that the third entree was the much-touted macadamia.

I avoided those little round pieces for quite a while. Inevitably, I grabbed one by mistake. It wasn’t heaven on earth, but it was pretty close to paradise. For the first time, I understood what all the macadamiaphiles had been preaching. What a glorious taste sensation! And to think that all of these years I was robbed of that because of some relatively insignificant baked dough surrounding this little jewel.

I’ve noticed that a lot of people are like macadamia nut cookies. I see the lumpy stuff that surrounds them and that often hides what is inside. And I avoid those people. Sadly, sometimes I even vilify them.

Yet, in a special moment, I’m given the opportunity to see them “outside the cookie.” And I discover the true value of them as people.

If you struggle from time to time with your feeling toward others like I do, you might want to think about brushing past the cookie to get to what’s truly inside.

If the shoe fits . . .

Last night, a new acquaintance began telling me about his recent experience buying sandles. He walked into a store last week, found a pair that he liked, and then asked the clerk to bring him a size 10-and-a-half and a size 11. He explained that his shoe size was 11 but that his experience with sandles was that they are often a little bigger than the size professes.

The clerk returned with two pair — sizes 10 and 11. “We don’t have half-sizes,” he reported. My new friend tried on the 10 “just because it was there” and was amazed when it fit perfectly. Curious, when the clerk left to ring up his purchase, he grabbed the contraption that gauges feet and found, indeed, his foot measured a size 10.

“I have a closet full of size 11 shoes,” he told me, “and now I’ve discovered that I’ve been buying the wrong size — most of my life!”

While I found the story interesting, I didn’t have a clue of his rationale for telling it. Until he added, “I’ve learned a lot through this experience. It seems that I’m quite capable of limping through life with the assistance of things that don’t really work. Now, I’m on the lookout for things that fit me and giving things a chance that I’ve refused to even consider. The future seems much brighter now.”

Openness to doing things differently — thinking, talking, listening — does tend to brighten up the future. Try on a different size shoe today. Particularly if its well-worn by someone else. You might discover some new possibilities.

Diving for Pearls

Recent life experience is taking me places. All sorts of places. Frankly, if you had told me two months ago about the journey I was about to take, I would have canceled my ticket.

Now that I’m down the road a bit, I have a different view. I have been enriched by the things I’ve seen, the emotions I’ve felt, and the words I’ve heard. All of those good things sprout from a central source — the people I’ve met.

Two months ago, I would have avoided most of these individuals. Nothing personal. I just thought I had no need to know them and no real curiosity about who they might be, where they might live, or how much we might have in common.

Last week, sitting in a crowded room with total strangers, I begin to see how their lives threaded through mine. My eyes were opened.

Amazing things happen when we begin to see the value of someone else, regardless their circumstance.

That Makes Two of Us

The flight out of Abilene was delayed by more than two hours. A 2 p.m. connection in Dallas was now set for 6:45 p.m. and the day of travel that had seemed fairly tame was emerging as a monster.

I had gate-checked my carry-on bag for the short hop from Abilene to DFW. With my new schedule I had several hours before my flight to Virginia, so I dutifully allowed those with immediate connections to deplane and grab their gate-checked items before me.

I retrieved my carry-on and as I turned to head up the jetway, I was blocked by a little girl. She was waiting for her dad, who was gathering a number of items. The four-year-old smiled up at me and asked, “Mister, are you in a big hurry?”

“As a matter of fact, I am not,” I smiled.

Her serious look turned to a big grin and she said, “I’m not either!”

I chuckled a bit and walked slowly to the terminal. Rethinking that bit of conversation, I was reminded over and over that afternoon that this few hours was a blessing, of sorts. For once, I had plenty of time to do everything I needed to do.

A few hours later, I was delighted to see the little girl and her family board the same flight and thought it incredible that they were seated right behind me.

“So,” I asked, “did you have plenty of time to see the airport?”

“All the time in the world,” she answered. “How about you?”

“Plenty.”

When stress is high, blessings sometimes come in unexpected ways. Who would have thought that a five-hour delay in reaching my destination would have been one of them? And what are the chances that I would find someone who shared my view of that?

Blessings do come in difficult times. I hope someone blocks your path and points them out to you.

A Moment of Christmas

We were expecting things to be different this year. Changes in the family have made us wary of almost every occasion.

So it was with no small amount of dread that I awaited the traditional opening of gifts. Certainly, I thought, things just won’t be the same. For one thing, it was coming a day late. And then there was the element of missing people. A few would not be with us. And then there was the fact that the economic downturn would be an obstacle for all that gathered.

But the magic moment of Christmas emerged. The gifts, some modest and some more extravagant, were a side note to the beautiful thoughts and love poured into their selection. After this long-awaited festival of sharing, I chided myself on my earlier anxiety. After all, wasn’t the greatest present in the world delivered in a small family gathering in a stable during tough economic times and horrific political and social stress?

So, while I was still thinking that perhaps Christmas would be unrecognizable this year, I received the greatest present of them all. The moment of Christmas began to sink in.

“Emmanuel” does mean “God with us.” And He is.

Faith

This has been a difficult year in many ways. I didn’t write a Christmas letter to slip in with the cards that Nancy faithfully selects, writes personal notes in, and stays up all hours to hand address. Come to think about it, I didn’t write a Christmas letter last year either. Twelve months ago, it was a mixture of fatigue, laziness, and a lack of time that drained the creative juices and stopped the project.

This year was just too difficult. In one of the Christmas cards to a dear, but distant friend, I wrote that this had been a year of blessings with a heavy dose of tragedy and a sprinkling of comedy. After further thought, I realized that was a pretty good summary statement. And it’s a statement that works not only for us, but for so many others around us.

For whatever reason, I have been fixated on how different things are becoming for us. And, in so doing, I think I’ve lost the broader view of what life is. Life is something different every day. Death is day after day with no change.

I have to admit I’m weary of some of the different that’s coming our way. Yet, I remind myself of what I learned from my good friend, Preacher Eddie. He was telling the story of Jesus calming the storm with that powerful order — “Peace, be still!”

As Preacher Eddie preached on, he asked us to consider the point of that story. I have to admit that I centered on the power of God, the Creator, and the awesome might of His mere words. And, as Eddie reminded, that is part of the story.

What I missed was what happened next. Jesus turned to his disciples and basically said, “So, what were you worried about? Did you forget that I’m right here in the boat with you?”

So, even though I can’t bring myself to writing a Christmas letter this year, I want you to know that the whole story of Christmas is this:

Jesus is in the boat. Whatever the change that comes, whatever the tragedy, God is next to us. Spreading blessings, sprinkling comedy.

Isn’t life great? When the waves grow a little threatening and wind howls around us, Nancy and I just turn to each other and say, “Remember, Jesus is in the boat.”

Merry Christmas. . .