Just Say Thank You and Shut Up

Angels among us.

To quote an over-quoted Charles Dickens, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”  

Holidays are always filled with hustle and bustle. While I usually refuse to settle into a hurried feeling of to-do lists and hoopla, this year I felt the anxiousness simmering, barely concealed beneath my skin. There were December birthdays to celebrate, gifts to buy, a house to decorate (I skipped making cookies this year. Who needs more sugar?), school concerts and church services and a few holiday parties to attend. Oh and there were two weeks of daily drives over mountain passes to finish up medical appointments for my son.

Somehow, in the midst of it all, I still managed to have fun, enjoy my family, a visit with my son’s delightful girlfriend, and the magic and meaning of the season. It was the best of times.

One day—the only day it snowed and obscured our drive on the way to the medical appointment...the same day I gripped the steering wheel so hard my fingers went numb...the same trip that took us almost an extra 40 minutes because I knew my little Toyota Corolla could skid like a hockey puck across the icy mountain roads if I wasn’t extra careful—we planned a shopping trip. It was just days before Christmas, and I hadn’t even bought anything for stockings yet, the one, real gift we give our kids. 

After rolling a sticky-wheeled cart around Target for a couple of hours, I managed to fill it with videos, cans of nuts, candy, make-up for my daughter, flashlights and novelties for my son, socks, lip balms, and random little fillers I thought might be fun, I pushed my cart to the line and waited my turn. I knew how much I could spend, and as I stood in line I did a mental calculation of the items, plus what I would need to buy for Christmas dinner. Our budget was tight this year. Medical expenses and multiple tanks of gas had stretched it to the limit. But we’d be all right.

Finally it was my turn and I unloaded all the items, glancing through them. Did I get my son enough? Would my daughter like those earrings? I still needed to pick up a few more things for my husband’s stocking. The checkout clerk cheerfully scanned each item and gave me a total. I gulped. It just seemed like so much for such silly stuff. I slid my debit card through the little scanning machine. Rejected. What? I even checked the balance with my husband before I left. We had plenty! I sighed, feeling the heat of bodies lined up behind me waiting their turn. 

“Let me try my charge card,” I said, totally embarrassed. Declined. That can’t be! I knew that was paid up. The cashier looked at me patiently. “I don’t understand,” I muttered trying yet another charge card.

“I’m sorry,” she said, almost as uncomfortable by now as I was, “That card's expired.” Great. I hadn’t put in the new card.

Another cashier came up and took a few people from our line. I was so embarrassed. “Never mind,” I muttered. “I’m not sure what’s going on. Just…I’ll leave it. I’m sorry. But thank you.” I walked away from the bagged items, my face hot, not meeting any eyes.

It was the worst of times.

“Ma’am?” the clerk called me back.

“Yes?” I said wishing she’d just let me walk away.

“These people behind you just paid for your purchase. You can take your bags.”

I’ve read about things like this happening. I’ve even wished I had the money to pay it forward like this before, but I’ve never had it actually happen to me. I was… horrified. Embarrassed. Mortified. “No, no,” I protested to the couple, probably both close to my age, the lady, a pretty blonde in a long, full-length fur coat. I had seen them in the store earlier as I was cruising aisles. With big grins they were filling several carts with Christmas goodies.

“It’s all right,” the lady said. “We are happy to do it.”

But I couldn’t let it rest. “No, no really. We are okay. We have the money. I just need to transfer it or something. I’m not sure why the cards didn’t go through.” Maybe if they had paid for needed groceries, or we truly were hurting for money, but this was just for bags full of trinkets and doo-dads for stockings. I couldn’t let them pay. They insisted. I wish I could say I was gracious and graceful. Although I thanked them profusely, I felt horrible inside. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

All the way home, I felt sick about being in a position of accepting charity;  for allowing someone to pay for our bags full of… stuff.  

As the day wore on, the reality of what had occurred and my ungracious response continued to sicken me. Slowly I realized I had to stop and adjust my attitude. Someone had wanted to gift us, to help alleviate my stress. They didn’t know we’d had a rough year with my son’s battle with cancer. They didn’t know our budget was tight. It didn’t matter. They wanted to do this, and I almost denied them their joy by allowing--let’s name it for what it is--my pride to ruin their gifting.

By the time I wrapped each little trinket to place in a stocking, I had softened and allowed the gratefulness and awe of what had happened to penetrate my heart. Being grateful--receiving--is, in my opinion, far more difficult than giving. I learned a tough lesson in humility, graciousness and gratefulness that afternoon. I hope they are lessons that won’t go unharvested. Although I trust this experience will remind me to pay it forward when an opportunity allows, I also hope it will teach me to recognize and name my pride more readily, and just learn to say thank you. And truly mean it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks BlogHer for the feature of this article. I'm in good company in my need to learn how to be graciously grateful. 

Angels Among Us

Microsoft clipart

Have you ever spoken with a fireman, or someone who places their life on the line for the protection of others?  It might be tempting to assume they receive an adrenalin thrill or ego boost when they're out on the job, but if you dig a bit deeper, I suspect you'd find a more noble motivation is really in their hearts. 

Several months ago, I had a conversation with a volunteer fireman. Somehow in the midst of our random gab we fell into the topic of religion. He happened to mention he was "religious", without providing me a more specific definition. That was all right; I didn't feel compelled to probe. 

I told him that church and religion have always swirled all through my life, and yet sometimes I still struggled to find God, to make him real. 

He simply replied, "Get in a fire someday, you'll figure it out."

I wanted to hear more. "How so?" I asked.

"It's God in you," he replied. "Angels help you find your way out when you're in the fire."

I grew silent, thinking about his words. "How do you know it's angels and not just your wits and skills leading you out?" I finally asked.

He hedged. "You wouldn't believe me. I swear I have seen angels."

I'd like to believe there are angels among us. I want to believe that. I've seen goodness in people, certainly, but, honestly, never an angel. "What do they look like?" I wanted to know.

"All good things," he responded. "No face, you just feel the goodness in them. The love. It's amazing."

My doubt nagged at me, and I searched to find a logical explanation, but, really, who was I to question his experience? Perhaps when he was in the fear and inferno of a burning building, when the heat feels like hell itself, and smoke obscures up from down and right from left, he truly is guided by angels. I have no reason to doubt his experience. Maybe he sees them because he has to look for them. He needs them. 

Maybe I don't see angels because I don't look for them. I don't think I need to see an angel. I think I already know right from left and up from down. Or maybe it's just that my building hasn't burned hot enough. 

As we drifted off to other subjects, I kept thinking about his angels. Safe skepticism still nagged in my brain, but I didn't voice my questions. I hoped he'd continued to see his angels and that they'd keep on guiding and protecting him each time he was out being a hero fighting fires or rescuing people. 

And I hoped, someday, I would see one too. But his words carried a bit of a warning, or perhaps a challenge about finding that angel: Get in a fire someday; you'll figure it out.