not wanting to do what God wants you to do

 

One of my pet peeves about TV shows and movies (now that we're on the subject) concerns the writing.

It irks me when scripts have none of the casual, reactive talking that occurs between regular people.

To my dismay, no superhero -- before they zoom off to fight to save everything in the world -- ever engages in the necessary chore of first clearing their schedule, or getting someone else to cover their shift at work ("Uh yeah, we were supposed to get together for drinks tomorrow, but now I have this thing I sorta GOTTA go do -- any chance we could we reschedule?").

No one called to a quest in a movie ever has to first:

-double-check when their flight leaves -- 

-put away clean laundry -- 

-charge their phone --

-empty the dishwasher --

-pack any bags --

-try to talk their way out of having to do the thing --

-use the bathroom one last time --

-and then use the bathroom again because they still feel like theygottago pee.

They're just ready to drop all of life, and do the thing.

Yes: I realize I'm nitpicking about ... the realism ... of movie scripts (no one said pet peeves couldn't be unreasonable).

So this is my roundabout way of saying I'm thankful for verses in the Bible such as Exodus 4:13, the one above. The Lord calls Moses to a new challenge: he's gotta go get enslaved people and lead them out of that awful way of life. Their captors will fight to keep them enslaved. 

If this were a movie script, Moses might respond by dramatically walking forward, gaze steady. He'd nod, the music would soar.

And we'd know that he was committed.

But no -- Moses has to talk it out (today, we'd diagnose him a "verbal processor").

So the third and fourth chapters of Exodus narrates the conversation between the Lord and Moses. What can we glean about God from this conversation?

a) It's actually a conversation. The Lord is not one to give an order, and then treat follow-up questions as a lack of faith or waste of time. Quite the opposite. Some of us may have experienced receiving tasks from our parents or other authority figures in this way. The only acceptable response was to listen and obey, but not to ask for or give our input. That is not how the Lord speaks with Moses.

b) The Lord doesn't pump Moses up by pretending his weaknesses aren't there. Moses notes that, like many of us, he despises public speaking.

Some of us, when we admit insecurities to our friends, we can almost predict their overly-optimistic comeback: "Oh, that's ridiculous! You're awesome at [whatever task you know you're not remotely awesome at doing]. You're totally gonna do fine!!"

The Lord doesn't try to puff Moses up. He just says, "I will be with you, and will teach you what to say."

c) Then, the kicker. Moses says, "Oh my Lord, please send someone else."

Moses doesn't want to do it.

Be honest: sometimes the Lord calls us (or asks us) to step into situations we want no part of.

But there it is. We gotta go do what the Lord asks of us to do.

Don't hear what I'm not saying: I'm not saying that every conflict or wrong that breezes across your attention span demands you drop what you're doing to address it.

And yet ... there are times when the Lord will call you to speak, with love and respect, what needs to be said. Or to do, with love and respect, what needs to be done.

Or to confront, in love and respect, that which you'd rather ignore.

Or to care for, with truth and love, that which you'd rather disdain, or remain indifferent toward.

Or to reach out, in love and respect, when you'd rather stay mad and avoid it.

It's understandable to not be wild-enthused about every single thing the Lord may be calling you to do. If you gotta first talk it out with God, by all means, talk it out.

@ some another point

At some point, we decide to hope.

At another point, we decide to relocate that hope.

At some point, we sustain the wound.

At another point, we realize the wound has closed.

At some point, we reconsider problems we already solved.

At some point, we can recite the formula from memory.

At some point, we cry. 

At another point, we laugh.

At some point, we save that special pic on our phone.

At another point, we decide it's best to un-save it.

At some point, we freeze amidst uncertainty.

At another point, we make up our minds.

At some point, we toil.

At another point, we find our limit.

At some point, we let it go.

At another point, we make it let us go.

 

At some point, we want to be asked.

At another point, we want to avoid being asked.

At some point, we want a hug.

At another point, we want the hug to end.

At some point, we get another swing at a pitch.

At another point, the game's over.

At some point, we scheme and plan.

At another point, we lay down the swords we carry.

 

if the shoes don't fit

[Readers, I exclusively shop online for clothing. In addition to this, I rarely (if ever) purchase new clothing; I prefer previously-owned stuff. Make of that what you will; it's essential for the following story.]

 

A pair of shoes I'd long desired once came across my feed. It was as though the heavens opened when I saw they were available.

Was the pair in my size? YES. 

Was the price reasonable? YES. 

Did the seller include a picture of the soles (I check tread wear before buying)? YES. 

Were the shoes void of obvious gouges and/or damages? YES.

 

From viewing the listing, these shoes met my hopes for what I wanted. So, I purchased them. 

 

Oh goodness, they looked sharp when I opened the package. Wore them to work, happy to find shoes that looked decent. But as I walked around that day, I noticed they began rubbing savagely against my heels. Blisters formed. "That's not good," I thought.

 

So I took the shoes to get professionally stretched (more on this below). Paid $20, and went to pick them up one week later. Sometimes this intervention works! I wanted them to fit. 

 

But it didn't work this time. To continue to wear these shoes would perpetually blister my heels. I couldn't walk normal while wearing those shoes. So they don't work for me.

 

This can also apply to relationships. Someone may -- at first impression -- look as though they have what you look for in a companion.

 

Similar values? YES.

Easy to talk with? YES. 

Easy on the eyes? YES.

Interested in you? YES. 

 

So you settle in to a relationship. 

It's cool at first, or maybe even for awhile. 

But eventually, cracks start to show. The friction starts to cause some blisters.

 

They almost always resist accepting any blame for how they contributed to a problem. Or they expect you to read their mind to detect what's bothering them, instead of them just verbalizing their perceptions. Or they're often inconsiderate of your time and commitments. Or they continually cancel last-minute. Or they're slow to de-prioritize contact with previous relationship partners. Or they treat your stuff they borrow (clothes, a car, technology) with a lack of care. Or they constantly push your stated boundaries. Or you end up getting dragged into much arguing over inconsequential, little things.

And maybe you've heard that relationships take hard work, and you think "Well, learning to accept with this sort of behavior could be part of what it means that relationships can be hard work, I guess."

 

Perhaps. 

 

But another principle exists when it comes to dating: you will get what you tolerate. 

 

If there's some way your partner tends to responds to you or treats you that doesn't sit well with you, it's wise to address it early (and by 'address it', I mean initiating a talk with the other person where you're respectful, clear, and proportional to the situation). Otherwise, the pattern will continue. A weed left alone continues to grow in a garden. A shoe too tight on a foot continues to blister.

 

This doesn't necessarily mean ending the relationship with the person over these issues. Nor does it mean making an issue out of every annoyance. But it does mean being clear about addressing problematic patterns of relating.

 

The nice part about respectfully, consistently standing up for yourself is that it helps you repel selfish people. It also motivates inattentive, poorly-disciplined people to grow in consideration for others.

There's a version of you that's both your best and your most truthful. It's the version of you that shows itself when you're in the places and around the people where you feel safest. And there's a way that the people that love you the most influence you to be a better person while also genuinely, unconditionally enjoying who you are in the present. You basically want that sort of vibe in a relationship too -- someone who wants you as you are, and who wants to help you grow but they're not necessarily the teacher.

 

(And, don't be someone you're not to gain someone's love. More on that at another time.)

 

I tried on another pair of shoes that I liked. 

 

They didn't fit quite right either. 

 

I considered my options, then purchased sole inserts to see if that'd alleviate the problem. It did! Now I can walk in them without issue. A chance to adapt worked out nicely. This too can apply to relationships.

  

 

 

How to Stretch Shoes for a Perfect Fit 

 

parade fail

Be gracious with yourself. Take your screw-ups in stride.

I once participated in an Independence Day parade-I was 16 years old. My simple task was to sit in the back of a pickup truck and toss candy to roadside parade watchers. The parade kept a manic pace; sometimes we'd idle for a few minutes. Other times, our truck would have to zip along to catch up.

A few blocks into our route, I spotted this girl I knew from school (she was watching the parade). It would be fair to say I was interested in getting to know her better. Maybe I was also interested in asking her out on a date at some point.

'Ah ... here's my chance to make a glorious impression,' I thought. My quickly-concocted plan: I could hop off the side of the truck, say hi and give her candy, and then keep moving with the parade ('Gotta run; I'll call you later!!'). Then, I could indeed call her later, continue chatting ... and perhaps ask her out on a date.

Seldom do plans this good come together this effortlessly.

'Let's roll,' I said to myself, swinging my legs over to hop off the side of the idling truck.

At that same moment, it lurched forward to keep with the parade pace.

It's quite astounding how, in an instant, good plans turn to rot. Instead of hopping off this truck, I was now falling off this truck.

Thankfully, I did not hit the road face-first. Instead, I sorta ... belly-flopped onto the street, about five feet in front of this girl (and her friends who were all watching with her).

Until I fell out from nowhere, she hadn't noticed my participation in this parade. She for sure noticed now. The sting on my chest from hitting the pavement mirrored the sting of mortification I felt because I'd just wiped out before her very eyes.

It suddenly no longer seemed like the ideal time to chat. I'd just fallen off the back of a truck in front of her, and the parade continued moving. So I gasped out, 'Hey ... [lands on roadway] Oww!! ... Well, good to see you! Here's some candy -- gotta go!', and hurriedly shuffle-limped off.

Smooth. 

At that time, I felt unfathomably embarrassed.

At that time, I hoped no one witnessed what had just happened. At that time, I felt like I'd just socially kicked myself right in the teeth.

Perhaps, as you're reading this story, you're also remembering a time when you endured a similar embarrassment. Those moments stick in the memory bank. 

But at this time? It's one of my favorite stories to tell on myself.

If I'd face-planted out of a truck in front of my best friends, we would have laughed, and kept on laughing until we cried.

Slowly but steadily, I've come to learn that I can't totally trust my gut feelings about myself. I often overreact to my own screw-ups, and assume the worst fallout. In the moment, I seldom extend the grace to myself that I eventually will settle into later. I've learned that a lot of the time, my dear friends have a clearer view of me and my worth than I do.

Screwing up is a part of life. It happens to me. It happens to you.

Anyway, blessings on your day today. 

Perhaps you can reflect on some of your past screw-ups. Your perspective could be kinder now than it was before. That's the wiser posture to hold. Try to laugh at yourself when you can, and as your friends would laugh, from a place of love and warmth -- that's where much of grace resides.

ask for help? are you insane?

I don't like asking for help. You don't like it either.

 

Behold, a smattering of excuses I've used to avoid asking for help in (various) situations:

 

-"I don't want to be a burden"

-"I don't even know where to start with what I need"

-"They won't take care of this for me in the way I want it taken care of, so I'll just do it myself"

-"People are all so busy, I hate to add on more thing to anyone's plate"

-"They can't help by bringing/making me food because they don't know how to deal with my allergies"

-"I don't want to then deal with all the questions"

-"One time I asked for help and that person who said they would ended up letting me down, so I'm not going to do that again"

-"I don't want to owe anyone any favors"

Does this sound familiar? Do you abhor asking others to help you? Would you rather punch yourself in the face?

Of course.

 

Even though so much publicity and messaging exists to reassure you that getting help doesn't make you a freak or weak --

-- you still reflexively recoil at the thought of asking someone to help you. I do too. It's sufficiently ingrained in this age that we avoid such entanglements.

 

Yet it's hard to find a more anti-Christian, anti-human credo to attempt to operate by than "I shouldn't need anyone's help."

Please hear this, with love: many people do want to contribute and assist you in your success. But you (and I) make it hard to do if you (and I) never let anyone lend a hand. 

In a weird way, asking a friend for help serves them. 

When I grant others the honor of showing their care for me, that blesses them. Being able to show unselfish, unconditioned love for another person fulfills. It reminds me (and you) that letting others help widens my (and your) trust for them, and vice versa.

Truth is, we can't do everything by ourselves. We profess to understand and to heed this axiom, but in reality, we attempt to instead do 98% by ourselves. We heed the technicality of this truth, but not the spirit of it.

So ask for help. Start small, and start with someone you trust. Admit what you don't yet know instead of trying to fake it. It's how people get stronger, and how trust grows, and how the world should work.

 

you see what you look at

[Apologies to my late grandma for the blog title; she heartily disliked any sentence that ended with a preposition!]

 

When my best friend turned 16, he acquired (for $1,000!) a 14-year-old BMW. Given its age and mileage, he perpetually performed maintenance on that car -- for him, it was a labor of love. It looked sleek.

I, on the other hand, knew nothing about BMW's. If asked, I wouldn't have been able to identify them from any other brand of car.

But here's what began to happen:

 

Once I began to ride with him in this car, and listened to him talk so much about his car, I started noticing other BMW's everywhere on the road.

 

The distinctive headlights-

That logo-

I had no idea how many people drove this kind of car, until I knew what I was looking at [apologies again to grandma - another preposition!]. 

 

Once I could identify them, I could see them.

 

Isn't that how it normally goes for you and for me? What we look at, we tend to see. But until we know what we're looking at, we don't see it.

 

Some examples: 

-A friend will play you a song they love, and will point out a note sung (or instrument used) at a particular moment in the song. They'll tell you why they specifically love that part. You never noticed it before. But after it's pointed out to you, you can't not hear it.

-You love a particular snack. But until you told your friends about this, they'd never heard of nor seen it sold anywhere -- but since you told them, they see it all the time. They even will send you a message when they find it somewhere. "This makes me think of you"

 

So: 

 

If you're anxious, discouraged, disheartened, cynical -- I'm not going to say there's no legit reason for this. The world puts us all on blast every moment telling us what sucks and what's getting worse.

 

But I will ask: if you want more hope, more encouragement, less anxiety, less cynicism ... what are you purposefully looking at that'll point out to you those sources of hope? What are you looking at that'll show you why there's reason to feel encouraged? Where are you looking to that's committed to lessening your anxiety or cynicism? 

 

Who in your life reminds you of these things? Who in your news feed shows this to you? 

 

It's naively idealistic to think we can thrive without intentionally looking for what's hopeful, encouraging, authentic, true, or noble. If your social media feed is 15% encouragement and 85% doom and gloom, it's reasonable to presume your mood and mindset would correlate to this.

  

Perhaps this is why the apostle Paul writes (while he's in prison!) in Philippians 4 to his hearers about this:

 

Truth is, our minds will fill with something. Ergo, we gotta watch what we think about and put into our minds (just like we gotta watch what we eat and drink to maintain our health). 

 

We see what we look at. What are you looking at?

 

satellites connect us

Sometimes in life, some event scatters a cluster of friends outward from a shared space and common timeline.

-High school graduation.

-A church youth group slowly ages out -- going its separate ways, ending up worlds apart.

-A team finishes a season.

-Last night of summer camp.

-A best friend from elementary or middle school moves away in the summer.

-The final night of a play, after striking the stage.

-End of a spring semester of college.

-College graduation.

 

Like an exploding star of memories and matter, what seemed like one friend nucleus becomes multiple paths, spreading outward ... and away.

 

"You don't have to go home, 

but you can't stay here" -Semisonic, 'Closing Time'

There's an excitement to these new paths. 

 

There's a poignancy to stepping off the old paths.

Maintaining these ties to our once-clustered loved ones takes intentionality that it didn't once require.

 

"Nothing gold can stay," the poet reminds us. "A time to keep, a time to cast away," the writer of Ecclesiastes tells us.

The proximity we shared (and sometimes took for granted, though honestly, we didn't mean to) wasn't meant for forever. Goodbyes come at some point. Our times together become scattered.

"I guess this is growing up" -Blink 182, 'Dammit'

But: we're not without some hope. The metaphor of you and your friends scattering like an exploding star--forever outward and away--thankfully isn't the most accurate metaphor. It just can't be.

Why: because, Lord willing, there will be times to reconvene. There will be times to re-gather. There will be times to mourn together, to be together, and to laugh together, in a shared physical time and place again.

My vote for a more accurate metaphor is this: maybe we're more like a satellites orbiting a moon.

 

Times will come when our links to our friends gets tenuous. They disappear to the dark side of the moon (so to speak), and our signal contact gets interrupted. From other people's perspectives, we go around that side of the moon as well. But they (and we) can come back around. Our signal contact gets restored.

It's something exceptional when you and your people reconnect. The most unexpected tears of joy I let out on my wedding day was in our receiving line, seeing my dear college friend Vicki greet me and my wife. I knew she'd be there, so her presence wasn't a surprise. A vital, lovely, loyal friend from such a formative time of my life, traveling such a long way to witness a life milestone of mine. We once saw each other every day, but those days are gone. Seeing her there mattered the world to me. I'll never forget it.

The orbits can align again, for a time. 

We do get some say in where our orbits steer us.

So hold tightly to each other while you're here, and you're together. Enjoy the now. Don't worry that it feels like it's slipping away too fast; you can't help that.

It's doesn't have to be the beginning of the end. But perhaps, it's actually the end of some beginning. 

Different can still be good, but it'll rarely be the same sort of good. It'll be a new, usually unanticipated sort of good. Prepare to make effort to stay in touch. Don't let sporadic contact dishearten you for long. Send a text. Write the note. Make the drive. Book the travel. Walk together. Tell them when something makes you smile because it reminds you of them. Send a text again.

There's just nothing like old friends.

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end" -Semisonic, 'Closing Time'

peaking

We love the defying-the-odds stories, stories of second and third chances.

The true stories of athletes craftily finding ways to still compete (here, here, & here, for example). 

 

The true story of professional ballerina Wendy Whelan, who brilliantly kept on performing years past the typical age of ballerinas.

Or the true story of pro boxer George Foreman. He lost his boxing championship to Muhammad Ali at his peak physical condition of 25 years old...

then retired soon after, totally left the profession for 10 years...

...but regained the same boxing championship, about 20 years after losing to Ali.

 

Not just athletes, of course.

There's the true story of singer Mavis Staples, all of 71 years old when she won her inaugural Grammy ... even though she'd received her first Grammy nomination four (!!) decades earlier. 

I could go on with more examples. 

There's a reason we gravitate to these stories. It encourages us to hear examples of triumph with people who succeeded, despite not being at what we might presume is their peak condition.

For me, these true stories relieve me. I hope they relieve you as well.

 

They remind me that should an opportunity come my way, and even if I KNOW I'm not at my best, there still could be a way to work it out. It's a relief to remember that I can still have off days. 

 

You can have off days as well. Doesn't mean all is lost.

We don't know when our chances will come with whatever God would have us pursuing.

And yes, of course: we should try to make much of whatever chances we're given. But it's false to believe that we're gonna blow it unless we're at our absolute best.

Real-life examples remind us this isn't true. Real-life examples from ancient times and places remind us this isn't true.

So this is why I love stories of a near 50-year-old champ, a quinquagenarian ballerina, or a 71-year-old Grammy winner. No doubt they were not as sharp as their younger selves. 

 

Mavis's voice couldn't lilt about the higher notes like it once could. 

 

Wendy's joints required more upkeep than her 23-year-old self. 

 

Big George couldn't bounce around the boxing ring as deftly as his younger self.

They weren't at their peak. But they were still good enough for when the opportunity came. 

Whew.

 

tears don't care who cries them

Anytime I feel sick, I don't want to eat. 

 

Anytime I'm feeling depressed, I don't want loads of happy news. 

 

These are related, and I'll explain why.

That's not just me. When you're feeling nasty ill, you don't want a giant meal. Think about the last time you got over a stomach virus. What did you eat? Probably not much.

When people learn that I once worked as a hospital chaplain in the ICU (Intensive Care Unit), and also in the Emergency Dept, they'll say something like 'I could never do that ... I wouldn't know what to say, and I'd just say something dumb.'

I admit: I didn't know what to say in many situations. Each family was facing teeth-clenching stress and heart-splitting pain. If every patient there had their way, they'd be anywhere else. No one wants to be there.

So it's a small grace that we are created to receive -- within every interaction -- immeasurably more nonverbal than verbal communication. This is good news for us.

There's an Old Testament story about a person named Job, and Job endured some hard times (understatement). This story includes loads of awful, horrible advice given by Job's friends. His friends stink at providing verbal comfort. You probably know people who aren't the best at showing verbal empathy. Perhaps you yourself are not the best at knowing what to say (and what not to say) in sad or tough situations.

But ... Job's friends weren't totally clueless. 

 

And in this, there's hope for those of us awkward types who feel lost for what to say in these moments.

 

"Now when Job's three friends heard of all this evil that had come upon Job, they each came from his own place...to come to show him sympathy and comfort him. And they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great." -Job 2:11-13 (underlining mine)

 

Job's friends understood that no words they could say would diminish Job's pain. But still they were there, seven days and nights. Sitting in silence. Job couldn't digest any over-talking, asking questions, trying to fix his problems. So they didn't bother.

 

When our loved ones face such heartache, we often feel like we have to say just the

EXACT.

CORRECT.

PRECISE.

CONCISE. 

THING to show we care.

 

And we think that if we say anything wrong or awkward, it's the worst.

 

And it'll never be forgotten. 

But trust me: that's not true.

 

That's a grace for us, and for our hurting loved ones. We can be there, sitting, Silently. If we say anything, saying 'I love you' or 'I'm sorry you're going through this.' Or we can write this in a note, or a text. If they ask how or why such a thing could be allowed to happen to them, it's OK -- and truthful! to say 'I don't know.'

 

Our words are less helpful than we imagine. Our presence is more helpful than we imagine.

 

Providing this sort of care to a friend is a morsel of soul nutrition. And that's something. Remember when you're sick with a stomach virus...a heaping plate of spaghetti or a hamburger with fries sounds nauseating to attempt to eat. But that tiny sip of ginger ale, or a small bite of cracker? For a wracked system, it's so delicious, is it not?

 

When we give or receive these little graces, it reminds us that bigger graces exist. It reminds us that the present awful situation and sadness isn't all there is. It kindly reminds us of these truths in a way that our hearts and souls can digest in that time.

 

Don't just do something; be there. 

 

It'll feel to you like you're doing nothing. But nothing could be further from the truth.

 

McMadness meets Lent, meets me

My most formative memory of the annual Lenten season, oddly enough, has nothing to do with a church. It has no association with ashes, with penitence, or with Jesus spending 40 days in the wilderness.

 

It has to do with fish.

 

Specifically, fried fish. Between a toasted bun. With one squirt of tartar sauce on the top part of the bun. And half a piece of cheese on the bottom part of the bun.

 

My first job was slinging burgers, salting fries, mopping floors, and forging memories at the Golden Arches itself-McDonald's. I first trained on the front counter registers (taking orders), but within a few months, I moved into the back grill area, to help prepare food.

 

The Filet-O-Fish sandwich was never a top-selling sandwich.

Sure, it had its fans. We always sold some of them. But it played a supporting role to the perennially popular Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and the Big Mac, or the McNuggets.

Because I worked while a high school student, I kept my availability limited during the school year. Monday evenings. Saturday, all day. And Friday nights, a 5-9:30PM shift.

 

It was one Friday evening in early March when I sauntered into work. "Busier than usual," I noticed. 

 

Multiple minivans in the lot. A line of minivans in our drive-thru line. Kids, so many kids in the lobby with their moms and dads. The kitchen staff looked bedraggled. They wearily greeted me as they welcomed the additional help. I tossed an apron over my purple polo work shirt, and surveyed the scene.

 

A large TV screen in the grill area showed the drive-thru orders coming through. Every order, weirdly enough, included our Filet-O-Fish sandwich. But not just one. 

 

Five Filet-O-Fish in one order. 

 

Four fish sandwiches for the next order. 

 

EIGHT Filet-O-Fish with the following order!

 

We could only fry 12 fish patties at a time. From frozen solid, to ready to serve, took about four minutes. When we need 17 Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, but we can only fry 12 fish patties at once, urgency and disbelief sets in immediately.

 

Flecks of tartar sauce splattered the walls. Globs of it dotted the floor. The kitchen looked like a mayonnaise and dill-inspired graffiti crime scene. The chaos. The carnage.

"WHAT THE HELL IS WITH ALL THESE FILET ORDERS?!?" I shouted to my manager. Unfortunately, my shouting coincided with a brief absence of conversational noise. Everyone heard me. Kids stopped sucking their straws to fix me with their gaze. Moms didn't look happy about what I'd just said in front of their offspring. 

 

My manager first tersely asked me to watch my language in front of the families, and then she told me. "It's Lent, and Catholics can't eat meat on Fridays."

 

At this point, I did faintly recall a large Roman Catholic parish less than two minutes driving distance away from our restaurant. So many young families attended there. "And we started a promotion until Easter -- the fish sandwiches are 2 for $2," my manager said.

We had no time to analyze the dogfight we found ourselves in. The scene grimly showed our uphill battle for that dinner rush. Minivan ... after minivan ... after minivan ... after minivan, all teeming with suburban families, carrying multiple children, all with appetites.

 

They all swarmed. They all wanted that fish sandwich. Many fish sandwiches. 

 

2 for $2!

 

Anytime we thought we could maybe start catching up, a bustling family lumbered through the door, five or six school uniformed kids in tow, ready to decimate our freshly fried fish catch.

 

Our tartar sauce dispensed from a caulk-gun inspired sauce gun that squirted a predetermined amount of sauce onto each sandwich. Those sauce canisters emptied fast. They dropped into the trash like shell casings from a cannon just fired. 

 

From 5-7:25PM, filet-scented bedlam plowed through our humble store that night. At some point, I transcended the chaos before me and entered some sort of Zen-like mental state of soldiering on, too numb to care, too disgusted by the tartar sauce splatter to notice much else. God help us.

 

For one Lenten season, you know what cruelly added to the frenzy? Those over-hyped Beanie Babies, also available along with the Filet-O-Fish deal for a limited time.

 

Thankfully, that's all behind me. 

 

It's been years since a flashback to those withering work nights woke me up in a sweat, swearing I could hear the beep of the fries that were finished cooking. Or the filet patties, ready to be put together and hurriedly given to some minivan stuffed with people.

 

The chaos. The carnage.