You know those days. The days when going to work seems worse than anything else that could happen. It’s like: be run over — go to work? Number one please! Well…I also have those days. And since I work at a place where I deal mostly with Christians…it’s actually a little worse.
Let me explain.
You see, dealing with Christians is a constant reminder of my every flaw and sin because it is a constant reminder of the average Joe’s flaws and sins. Hypocrisy, greed, anger…things like that. Things that Jerry Bridges calls “Respectable Sins”. These “Respectable Sins” are why I dread work, and why my mood progressively dampens the longer the night goes.
But every now and then…something happens. A person walks in the store. A person I expect to be a nagger, or a sulker, or a meddler. Tonight, that happened. An older lady (late sixties early seventies) came in and asked for help. She wanted a book about raising trouble children for her son. I smiled politely and lead her to the family section where I left her to browse. Twenty or so minutes later, she wandered up with a nice little pile and proceeded to check out. I asked her the standard question: “Would you like to donate a five dollar Bible to a military service member tonight?”
Turns out…those words are magic.
Because once they’d left my lips…the older woman was gone. There was a young, twenty-something standing in front of me…and it was the sixties. “Yes. Yes I would.” “Okay! Would you like to send it to a service member or to the family of a service member?” A smile. The family. “They have just as hard a time.” I agreed heartily as a cousin and friend to military persons. “I was a military wife. During Vietnam.” It is impossible for anyone to understand through a blog, my grief laden curiosity with Vietnam. My interest peaked. I expressed fascination. “Actually, my husband left with the draft one week after I buried my first child.”
This night has flown by since that experience. Since I became a piece of history, through a reflected memory. The last thing that twenty-something sixty-something said to me was: “I should really write a book.”
Yes ma’am you should.