grace

Grace, Anyone?

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As part of my job, I’m currently in the Commonwealth of Kentucky. For many reasons, I have a deep affection for this Commonwealth of Kentucky. I love its hills, many of its writers, where I spent some years in seminary for one of my graduate degrees, and for many of the people I’ve known and continue to know here. There are more reasons, but those are some of them.

Today en route to the Lexington region, I stopped for a quick lunch of fried chicken (it’s KY, after all), and as I waited for my order to be processed, I gazed around at the words and images on the restaurant’s interior. I was shaken by the one pictured above.

Why? For me, it’s theological. That word grace is weighty. In Greek, it’s χάρις. That’s karis in English transliteration. In the original, it means “divine favor.” Let that sink in–to be favored by God. To be shown favor by the Divine. Unmerited favor. Undeserved mercy. It’s God’s love in spite of our sinfulness. It’s 2 Corinthians 5:21, in other words: “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”

What struck me was the battle I was in while at the fried chicken place. The boy who worked the front cash register was impish, rude, and seemingly uninterested in my spending my money there, or in any way offering me customer-friendly service. He was curt, petulant, and cocky.

And yet there was that plaque on the wall. How ironic. Why this test, Lord? I thought. But I was friendly and respectful towards the young man in spite of his treatment of me. I paid, got my meal, ate, cleaned up afterwards, and exited. I walked back to my car and drove on towards the Lexington area.

Grace. Grace. Grace.

It’s easy to pass the language courses for some. To learn the case endings and nuances and tenses, etc. That’s just part of learning any language. But to live out grace in daily life–that’s much harder. That tests one’s mettle. That’s where we make our theology visible. That’s where we see that what’s down in the well comes up in the bucket.

Grace, grace, grace.

Robin’s Birdsong

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“Good mornin’, hon. What can I get you to drink?” “Water, please ma’am.” I liked her right away. According to her nametag, her name was Robin. I adjusted my chair underneath me. I slid closer to the countertop and looked around at the staff and other customers at the Waffle House.3dk7p3pxcbaf5atplkzmoo2mu8vq0vdwpol6rkdzygrsu6wtrltbidnbydm2jft9ko9l8y7kbemluwe5lkqfjslkon9q9ibxvsnjzi92tt0xhtaqyo86ptxezwp5122unx1n8byrtjgn7gjigaaaaasuvork5cyii

Robin was different. She was about sixty-five years old, with dark eyes, eyes dark as marbles. Silver streaks ran through her hair.

I ordered a Grand Slam breakfast with fried eggs, sausage, hash browns, and dry raisin toast. Robin approached with a waffle before the rest of the meal and said, “I’m sorry it’s taking so long. But would you mind if I just brought your waffle while we’re waiting on the rest?”

“Yes, ma’am. Fine. That works. Thank you,” I said.

Robin was obviously embarrassed at how long my meal was taking to be prepared. The cooks were more interested in cawing to one another than working, it seemed.

The other staff persons were  men and women between the ages of eighteen and thirty. A jukebox blared Kool and the Gang’s “Get Down on It.”

The other employees lined the countertops like crows. Without making eye contact, the staff communicated with one another—about customers’ orders, and gossip that (presumably) only they knew about.

As I continued to wait for my breakfast to be prepared, I watched the staff. Their lips mouthed the lyrics to the Kool and the Gang song. Some even rolled their hips during the chorus.

And there was Robin. She grimaced at the volume of the music. She returned to where I sat, at least two or three more times. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what’s taking so long,” she said.

She began writing on the yellow pad she carried in her apron. She handed it to me and said, “Sir, I’m only charging you for an egg breakfast, since you’ve had to wait so long.” She colored with embarrassment. She just didn’t fit in with the others. She was older. She didn’t like loud music. She didn’t participate in the gossip amongst the other employees.

The other employees got louder, cawing at one another, feeding upon one another’s volume and laughter. Were they laughing at Robin, I wondered.

When my meal arrived, I’d already finished the waffle Robin had brought earlier. I left off checking emails on my phone, to which I’d turned to keep from growing angry at the wait.

Finally the remainder of the meal arrived and I finished it quickly. Then I looked at my ticket: $3.00. Sweet Robin.

I stepped up to the register to pay with my debit card. I tipped Robin another three dollars. She deserved it. She was being murdered bit by bit, but she quietly sang her birdsong in her own way. Perhaps her middle name was Grace.