Observations on Life

Imagine getting ready for work early in the morning after a restless night. Not many people are able to sleep well when constantly being inundated by news of the corona virus. As an essential worker in a grocery store, a typical day will most likely include being asked to work a ten to twelve hour shift because of the shortage of employees. Some co-workers are sick, others have quit due to fear of exposure to the virus, and the need for cleaning and disinfecting has created even more labor. In the past you looked forward to going to work. You enjoyed the opportunity to serve the public and liked your job. While working retail can be tough, especially when dealing with cranky customers, it gives you a sense of satisfaction knowing you are contributing to your community by providing a needed service.

It has been said that difficult times bring out the best and the worst in people. Unfortunately, during the corona virus pandemic, often grocery store workers must bear the brunt of the worst. I spent about fifteen minutes yesterday speaking on the phone with a manager of one of our local grocery stores. Before I was able to speak to him, I spoke to the person who answered the phone, and asked to speak to the manager. She inquired as to whether I wanted to speak to the hiring manager, who was in their store in response to the worker shortage. I told her no, I wanted to speak to the regular manager. I wanted to express my appreciation to all of the employees for their hard work and their willingness to serve our community. I told her that having worked in retail, I knew that when people are under stress they are often not every nice and I wanted to make sure the employees know how much they are appreciated.

She replied, “I just got goosebumps. Nobody has been nice all week. I can’t tell you how much this means to us.”

The young lady got the manager on the phone and during our ten minute chat I learned of several things:

Many employees were scared, but coming to work anyway.

Some employees were not coming to work, causing a short staffing situation and extra work for those who did.

The number of customers that have been nice or understanding were less than he could count on one hand. He tried his best to encourage his associates but it was really hard because of customers complaining over things of which the employees had no control over.

I told him we were regular customers and so grateful for his service and that of his employees. I shared with him that my husband has asthma and hypertension in addition to being over sixty,  so we were not leaving the house since he is in multiple high risk groups. It was because of his workers that we could safely get our groceries by utilizing their pickup and delivery options. This manager, who was struggling to keep his store associates encouraged, shared with me that he also has asthma (which puts him in the high risk group). He told me he continued to work because he believed it was better to give than to receive. His words humbled me. They should humble you, too. In parting, I expressed how I was looking forward to the day, in the not too distant future, when we could see him and thank him in person.

I would like to ask you to look beyond the inconvenience of empty shelves and long lines, and instead view these workers through a lens of gratitude. I also challenge you to take that gratitude a step further and act upon it. That looks different for different people – but we can all participate in some way. It may be simply by including these folks in your prayers. It may be telling workers when you see them how much you appreciate what they are doing. You can have patience and understanding when they are out of what you wanted. Perhaps it is a phone call to say a quick thanks. You could even do something more tangible – I found these cards on Amazon. I asked the manager how many employees he had and I ordered enough for all of them and had them sent directly to the store.

These courageous folks are making a difference every day by going to work to meet the needs of our communities. How can we make a difference for them?

Image credits: Alexas_Fotos and Squirrel_photos

Flash Fiction by Nancy Golden

Photo Credit: Image by Wendy Corniquet from Pixabay

The sweat dripped off Mugwaneza’s forehead and into his eyes as he lugged the jerry can filled with water behind his back. His spindly arms used to shake when he first started his daily four-mile journey, but he had grown stronger this past year. Now, only in the last mile, did his arms start to tremble. He tried to force his tired legs to move faster so he would have time to study. The sun was already low in the sky, and if he didn’t reach his family’s home in time, it would be too dark to see his schoolbook.

He crushed the thought in the back of his mind that he might run into Nzobatinya today. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it was terrible. He couldn’t understand the hatred in the other boy’s expression. The sorrow from the genocide that happened before Mugwaneza was born never seemed to completely disappear from his mother’s eyes, but this boy didn’t even know him. Why did he hate him so much?

As if reading his thoughts, Nzobatinya emerged from a stand of brush and, putting down his water container, picked up a rock from the ground. Giving an angry yell, he hurled it at Mugwaneza, catching him completely off guard and causing him to drop his own container. The stone struck Mugwaneza’s forehead, and the beads of sweat now mingled with blood oozing from the gash. He watched in shock as the precious water leaked out of his jerry can. He touched his forehead with his hand and looked down to see the blood splayed across his fingers. Instinct took over, and he dived for the container and set it upright. A quick examination revealed that about a quarter of the water had leaked out. He was still a mile away from home and the sun was rapidly descending—no time to safely return to the watering hole before the evening predators emerged. He looked around and sighed. Nzobatinya was gone, and Mugwaneza’s family would have to be extra careful about rationing their water today.

The following day, Mugwaneza began his usual afternoon trek for water. He dreamed of going to university someday, and that dream occupied his thoughts as he trudged along. The watering hole was a few hundred yards away, and as he approached a particularly brushy spot on his route, a high-pitched scream abruptly brought him back to reality. Still carrying his empty jerry can, all of his senses went on high alert as he peered into the brush, trying to determine the source of the cry.

Creeping forward, Mugwaneza could see Nzobatinya on his hands and knees about ten yards away, frozen in fear. He followed the other boy’s gaze and could barely discern the shape of a lion crouching, its tawny coat blending in with the brush. The lion’s fierce stare was intent on Nzobatinya, its body taut, ready to pounce.

Mugwaneza started sweating profusely. The foul taste of fear soured his lips, and his stomach spasmed as his throat closed. He had heard his parents talking about the government reintroducing lions in Rwanda, but this was the first one he had encountered. He tried to swallow as he considered his next move. Fear was trying to freeze him. It was gaining ground. He reached up and touched the scab where his forehead was still healing from the stone Nzobatinya had thrown. He heard a low growl and watched as the lion, eyes riveted on Nzobatinya, started to slink forward.

The oxygen was sucked out of the air, and Mugwaneza couldn’t hear anything except the rushing wind in his ears. He grasped his jerry can tightly and leapt forward, running toward Nzobatinya and the lion, waving the container like a lunatic. He shouted as loudly as his lungs would permit and glared at the lion with a rage he had no idea he possessed.

The lion stopped and returned Mugwaneza’s glare. From a predator’s point of view, the two-legged creature’s actions were incomprehensible. Prey should either be frozen in fear or should run, including lesser predators who qualified as prey. The audacity of Mugwaneza’s efforts made the lion pause, but not for long. Turning away from his original target, the lion pinpointed his new victim and roared. He dashed forward and met Mugwaneza head-on—knocking him to the ground. The lion bared his monstrous incisors and extended his claws to savagely maul Mugwaneza’s helpless body, but was flung off-balance. Nzobatinya, forgotten when the lion attacked Mugwaneza, jumped onto the lion’s back, screaming and pounding the fierce predator with his small fists. The lion whipped his head around in a frenzy, throwing Nzobatinya off and biting at both boys, inflicting painful gashes with his sharp teeth. The boys continued their noisy attack. Mugwaneza used his jerry can to deflect the lethal teeth as much as possible, and Nzobatinya found a piece of deadwood on the ground and began beating the lion with it. Suddenly, the lion stepped back from the fray, shaking its great head. It gave one final roar and then turned, disappearing into the brush.

Mugwaneza fell back on the ground, exhausted. Their wounds were deep, but amazingly none were life-threatening. Both boys were covered with them, and the amount of blood seeping from their injuries was unsettling. Trying to calm his breathing, Mugwaneza stared up at the sky when as a blood-soaked hand came into view. He reached up and grasped the hand of Nzobatinya, who helped him to his feet. Nzobatinya didn’t release his grip. Instead, he stared at their intermingling blood with a somber fascination. Finally, he looked directly at Mugwaneza.

“Why did you save me?”

“How could I not?”

Nzobatinya stood a long time, not letting go. He suddenly pressed Mugwaneza’s bloodied hand to his own face. Tears began to mix with blood. Staggering into each other, they embraced. Tears mingled with tears and blood mingled with blood, falling to the ground as one.

 

We often view snapshots in a positive way. We try to catch that perfect moment and freeze it in time to remember forever. For some, we use a snapshot to define how we feel about a person. We look at a photograph and it evokes strong emotions. But snapshots can be problematic as well. I’m not talking about instagram or an old photograph but rather, the snapshots that we carry in our minds, that color our thinking. These snapshots can be an unfair representation of a person, yet it is the view we insist on having. Sadly, these mental snapshots may be influenced by comments from family or friends; people who have not seen the whole movie, only random snapshots that don’t tell the whole story.

I don’t talk about my Dad much, except that he died when I was fifteen. The years after his death were traumatic as my Mom, brother and I struggled to maintain a semblance of family identity. My brother and I were rebellious teenagers and having our anchor dislodged unexpectedly made for very rough sailing for all of us. As the years went by and I dealt with the consequences of my immature decisions, I thought of my Dad less and less. I’m grateful that my Mom remained steadfast – she was always there for me no matter what. But for some reason, we didn’t talk much about Dad. We may have done the occasional reminiscing about a family event, but we didn’t dwell on his absence. Perhaps each one of us had a hole in our heart we didn’t know how to fill, so it was easier to ignore it rather than to acknowledge it.

But for me, there was also something else. Mental snapshots I remembered, and mental snapshots that other people told me about. Like any family, we struggled with dysfunction. For my Dad, it was alcoholism. No doubt about it, our family suffered because of it. Yet, my father faithfully went to Alcoholics Anonymous, made a commitment to Christ, and was completely sober the last two years of his life. Sadly, my childhood friend chose not to remember that when we were reminiscing a few years ago, but emphasized his sin instead. So almost forty years later, I felt shame instead of pride when I thought of my Dad. That wasn’t right and I shouldn’t have let my friend’s words influence me. We all have sins we struggle with – some are just more visible than others.

How could I let my friend’s mental snapshots of my Dad influence my attitude towards him, when I have so many more snapshots that speak to the love he had for our family? I must have been around six years old when he took me on a Daddy-daughter date. I remember putting on my best dress and I was amazed it was just us at a fancy restaurant. I felt so special! He used to insist we be on time for our bedtime and if we were one minute late he would get mad at us. I would be so upset that I made him angry, I would lay in my bed and cry, then creep down the hallway where I could see him through the cracked hallway door, sitting in his recliner watching television. He would see me peeking at him and tell me to come over and give me a hug. I remember when I fell off my horse and broke my ankle (I was around eleven years old), a young man found me and put me in his car and brought me to his mother’s house. I had not shed a single tear until I saw my Daddy in the doorway – then I burst out crying because my emotion at seeing him was so overwhelming. I was truly Daddy’s little girl. I loved to draw pictures for him that always had the caption “Best Daddy in the World.”

 

I remember a science project my Dad helped me with. He sold yard lights and he helped me build a street of cardboard and wire in yard lights in front of the houses. He bought his horse-crazy little girl her own horse, even though we didn’t have much money growing up. I remember waiting for him to come home from work so we could all eat dinner together. Afterwards, we would all sit in the living room (we each had our own chair) and I would curl up in mine and read while we watched the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, Saturday Night Wrestling or Wonderful World of Disney. I also remember making him a bunny rabbit cake for Easter one year.

 

Dad bought me my first Bible – I wish I still had it but somewhere along the way it has gotten lost. I can still see it in my mind’s eye – the picture of Jesus on the cover. He made every Christmas special with his famous lasagna and would take us to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. He didn’t have a very good singing voice but that didn’t stop him as he loudly sang to the Lord in church. The last time I saw my Dad, he had taken me to the church that our Explorer’s post gathered at to leave for our mountain climbing trip to Philmont, New Mexico. When we hugged goodbye I had no idea that would be the last time I would see him on earth. These are just a few random memories of many…and sadly those negative snapshots from others had the effect of my shoving all of the good memories I had into a closet – something I deeply regret. It wasn’t fair to my Dad and it wasn’t fair to me.

It is so important to think before we speak – Ephesians 4:29 tells us, “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” Don’t let other people’s words influence how you feel about someone. Instead, examine the relationship for yourself and search your heart. And let us give grace to one another – for we are all imperfect and in need of it. This blog post was forty years in the making. Dad, thank you for everything. I miss you and I am looking forward to seeing you again someday. I love you.