The Saddest Man Ever and the Soul Candy

Once there was a man who came through my line every day buying a sandwich, without ever smiling.

He was older, with a mustache and a uniform with "Rupert" on the pocket, and he was the gloomiest man I had ever seen. Lots of people pass with their eyes averted and their mouths turned down, but even Rupert's eyes were glassy with sad. I wanted to help him. I just never could.

Then one day, he came to the register with a bag of shiny hard candy.

"Ah!" I chirped. I wrapped it. "Good choice! These are the best."

He mumbled, his eyes downcast and glassy. "Grumble grumble not good for you."

"Nooo!" I cried, the same line I'd used a dozen times. "Happiness is good for the soul!"

And then something happened that I still don't understand.

The man, Rupert, looked up. He smiled. He made a joke. He started laughing, big, manly chortling giggles. And then he started singing.

I was too much in shock to remember the song, but the picture of his face, lit up and the eyes engaged with mine and laughing, is plastered across my soul.

The Saddest Man Ever hopped and sprung out of the store, singing. And all I could think, as I scrambled for purchase on reality, was that I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

The next time I saw him at the grocery store, he was buying hard candy, and he was smiling.

"You always say that."

"Hi, how are you?"

"I'm having a great day! How are you?"

"You always say that."

Mister?

You say it like an accusation, like you've caught me, red-handed, like there's something I'll confess. You're shoving it in my face, like you've won a prize. "Congratulations! You found the Easter Egg on the DVD! You found the ring in the cereal box! You got up in the face of the little cashier!"

What do you expect?

Today I woke up with my guts tied in knots missing someone I won't see today. My blood sugar is low because I've been at this register for four hours without eating, and that means I'm very tired. A guy dropped a 12-pack on my pinkie finger, and it still smarts. And you are not the first randomly uncongenial person I have met today.

But I made a decision 8 months ago, and I stand by it.

When I took on this job, I made the call that you were more loved than you were mean, you were more important than you were troublesome, and no matter what happened while I took care of your food and counted your change and handed you your receipt, you were worth being cheerful for.

Not because you deserve it; you don't. Because you're worth more than you deserve.

I made the decision that any day taking care of you was a great day. Even this one. And every moment I spent here I was glad to. And I'm glad to be here now.

I meet your eyes. "I do always say that. It's true." I hand you your receipt. "Thank you for shopping with us."

Parking Lot Ballet

It's late. I should be so, so asleep right now. But there was a moment singing to my heart and I needed to share it.

The weather today was so bad that all the words I find to describe it are German, words like schreckig and furchtbar. Words that mean the trees were technicolor and the sky made a dark portal to another dimension and our customers staggered in wind-battered and wet.

When I got off work, the sun was long set, and it was still raining. I hugged the closing cashier goodbye, pulled on my sweater, and walked outside.

It was beautiful, everything black and slick and puddled and water falling. At first I ran to make sure a car wouldn't hit me, to make sure a kidnapper wouldn't grab me. But then there was nothing between me and my car, and I realized I didn't care if I got wet. The asphalt was bright with wet, the air was bright with wet, water fell from the sky and I wanted to dance.

I did soft-shoe, badly. I leaped over puddles, half-gracefully. And then, I leaped too fast and too far because I'd reached The Paraclete (my car) and it was too soon. I hesitated by the door, till I realized what I feared was looking silly. I tossed the fear into the slish, and scurried back to the streetlight.

I'm not a ballet dancer. I'm a grateful student. Over and over, I am lectured to stop jerking from motion to motion, to stop focusing on trying to be perfect, to have fun. My teacher has told me to stop finding, and fall.

In the wet parkinglot, under the lights, the last little distance to my car, I got to dance. I wasn't perfect. Maybe I wasn't graceful. But I stopped finding, and fell.

And maybe that's what wet expanses of parking lot are for: for using the little strength I have, and learning to trust God so I can fall.

[Wrote this late at night and forget. Saved it so I could make sure it wasn't awful in the morning. Now I can post.]

Someone Saw Me

A few days ago, a man came to my line, and we had a conversation that went like this.

Man: I saw you here Friday.

Me: I don't think so. [I work a different job Friday.]

Man: I thought I saw you outside. You were coming to get your check or something.

Me: Ummm...

Man: You were twirling around with your arms out like an airplane.



...

Me: Oh. Yep. That was me. .__.

Man: You looked really happy.

Me: I was.

Pink Cupcakes

Yesterday the Vietnam veteran I had been afraid of came through buying pink cupcakes for his 8-year-old girls.

We had a pleasant conversation regarding cupcakes and 8-year-olds, and when he was leaving, I called out, "Oh! Thank you for your service."

He turned, pulled up to attention, and said- just said; his voice boomed enough to make calling unnecessary- "Thank you for your recognition."

Then he left the grocery store singing "JOY, JOY, JOY, JOY..."

I prayed that his pink cupcakes would be blessed. I don't know how to pray, a lot. But food-blessing I can do. May your pink cupcakes be blessed. In Jesus name.

"I forgive you."

"I forgive you" doesn't mean "what you did is okay." It means, "You are more important than the thing you did."

I asked God for practice on forgiving, and I got it. All day.

You are more important than what you're doing, girl rolling her eyes at me.

You are more important than what you're doing, man dropping things on my fingers.

You are more important than what a jerk you're being, old greasy guy calling me names.

No, what you're doing's not okay. Yeah, you should totally stop. But you are so, SO much more important than what you do, and it's not my job to set you right. It's my job to love you.

Also, the CSL has offered to kick your butt. Be warned.

(Found this in a journal from January 1, 2014.)

Bagging for the Scary Man

I like having a counter between me and people a lot.

Some people seem like they have "DANGEROUS-KEEP OFF" written all over them. This guy actually did. He had a "KEEP OFF- UNSOCIABLE VETERAN" decal on the shoulder of his jacket, and Vietnam War paraphenalia over the rest of it. His hair hung down long and stringy under his hat. His eyes were hard. He didn't talk, but his lips were moving.

My stupid heart was beating hard. I moved to the bagging area to do my job, but I was praying in my head, "God, help me love this guy right. Please, help me not be scared."

He got to the register to pay, and I heard what he was saying.

"Reunited and it feels so good. Reunited and it's understood..."

Thank You, God. Thank You for scary-looking people who sing along to elevator music. Thank You for making me not scared.

Mini Spanish-Soap Opera Moment #1

And then there was that moment when, in the middle of the mini Spanish soap-opera unfolding in front of my register, I broke in to ask in Spanish if they wanted things double-bagged.