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.