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Friday, September 5
in search of good fruit
A couple of weeks ago, early on a Sunday morning, I made a quick stop by the grocery store to pick up some fruit that Mike wanted for a message illustration. That kind of thing is just one of the asterisked, fine-print items in the Pastor's Wife Contract that you don't really read before you sign up — the Honey, Stop by the Store and Get Me Something Seemingly Random That I Will Make Profound Spiritual Points About While I Teach clause. Weirdest items to date: six giant Hershey bars, one jogging suit, 10 different kinds of deodorant.
I ran in and quickly checked off my list: apple, orange, grapes, banana. And as I approached the checkout, I found myself at the edge of an argument, in which a middle-aged couple was hurling venomous insults at an elderly stranger. They kept shouting as they grabbed their bags to leave the store, their mouths bitter and twisted with hate.
The cashier apologized to the man on their behalf as he rummaged for change to pay for his loaf of bread. She made an odd statement as he walked away: They're always like that.
Always? I asked, and she told me the story of this man and his wife who come through her line every Sunday morning, week after week. As she rings up their pickles and coffee and oatmeal, they launch verbal arrows to provoke religious and political arguments with whomever happens to be in line. They are known by everyone in the store by their bizarre love for spite and confrontation.
My heart moved toward judgment, but before it made it to its destination, the thought struck me hard:
I, too, go into the same places every week. I may not pick fights with strangers, but what behavior do I repeat? Where is the evidence of my heart? Am I known to be the person I think I am?
I looked at the fruit in my hand, and whispered confessions to my God of grace.
I ran in and quickly checked off my list: apple, orange, grapes, banana. And as I approached the checkout, I found myself at the edge of an argument, in which a middle-aged couple was hurling venomous insults at an elderly stranger. They kept shouting as they grabbed their bags to leave the store, their mouths bitter and twisted with hate.
The cashier apologized to the man on their behalf as he rummaged for change to pay for his loaf of bread. She made an odd statement as he walked away: They're always like that.
Always? I asked, and she told me the story of this man and his wife who come through her line every Sunday morning, week after week. As she rings up their pickles and coffee and oatmeal, they launch verbal arrows to provoke religious and political arguments with whomever happens to be in line. They are known by everyone in the store by their bizarre love for spite and confrontation.
My heart moved toward judgment, but before it made it to its destination, the thought struck me hard:
I, too, go into the same places every week. I may not pick fights with strangers, but what behavior do I repeat? Where is the evidence of my heart? Am I known to be the person I think I am?
I looked at the fruit in my hand, and whispered confessions to my God of grace.
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