“I want you to know that’s not who I am.”

I was running errands on my day off when I went into a franchise of a national brand to research (and possibly make) a major purchase. My post-workout self, in gym clothes and no makeup, made the greeting of the guy behind the front desk of “Hey, Greg, a pretty lady here to see you” both ironic and, of course, mildly insulting. Perhaps he always greets the men that come in with, “Hey, Greg, a cute gentleman here to see you.” 

As I sat waiting for my salesman to get something from the back, the guy at the front desk yelled to the other (all male) salesforce, “Hey, listen to this. Someone’s calling me from Texas.” He put the call on speakerphone and began speaking quite loudly to this spam phone caller.

I dislike junk phone calls as much as anyone, and so, since I was in direct line of sight and easy hearing range, I listened with everyone else in the room to see what would happen next. What happened was that the guy behind the front desk described in graphic, violent, sexual detail, using vulgar language, precisely what he hoped would happen to the caller. And to the caller’s hypothetical 9-year-old daughter. The guy at the front desk was loud, and everyone else in the room laughed along long after the call ended. My middle-aged preacher self was clearly visible to everyone, but no one looked my direction as they drifted away.

I was sickened by what I had just heard. I considered walking out at that moment, but there were reasons for me to pursue this purchase from this place. My salesman came back, not having heard any of this exchange. I filled him in on what had been said, and he assured me that it was a family-owned business. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I could not support this business with my purchasing dollars, no matter how inconvenient or costly it might be for me to go elsewhere. On my way out, I sought out the person whose name was on the top of building and had to be content with leaving a message.

I heard first from the man who had spoken so vulgarly. He said that he was calling me because my salesman told that I wanted an apology. In his attempt at an apology, he said, “That isn’t who I am.”

I heard next from the manager. “We’re a family-owned business. That isn’t who we are.” 

Actually, yes. Yes it is who you are.

Who you are is how you act when it’s just “the guys” or “the girls.” Who you are is how you act when the only customer around is one middle-aged woman in sweats. As a business, who you are is how all of your salespeople act when they’re talking together, with or without customers around. That company’s problem is much bigger than one lost sale. Their greater problem is having a company culture that thinks that is okay to have that type of phone call loudly in the middle of the office with everyone joining in and laughing. Seriously, could you imagine that happening in your own workplace? 

I’ve been thinking about what happened last Friday a lot. I wish I could wash his words out of my ears, but I can’t. I wish it wouldn’t be harder now to pursue my purchase, but it will be. I wish I didn’t have to spend time and energy considering how high up the corporate food chain I should share my experience, since another “hey, pretty lady” came in while I was leaving. 

It’s also made me think about my own faith life. I realize how many times I act in ways that may not represent who I like to think that I am. No, you won’t find me recommending anatomically impossible sex acts to random spam callers in a public (or private) place. But I’ve certainly got my own stuff. I can become impatient. I’m quick to judge others. My feelings can get hurt way too easily. There are times when I think back on a certain time and think, “That’s not who I am.” But it is. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have acted that way.

Who am I? When it comes down to it, I’m just one more flawed and frail human whose meaning and hope come from Someone far beyond herself. Some days, I represent Jesus really well, and other days I’m sure I don’t. I’m not yet ready to admit that I’ve got more in common with that guy at the front desk than not (certainly, I at least have better judgment than he does), but the truth of it is that none of us gets through this life on our own merits. It always and only is about God’s grace and love for us as the bunch of sinners that we are. 

Yep, one more sinner redeemed by God’s love. That’s who I am.

Wedding Mints

“What are you making?” Andy asked, as he walked by me in the kitchen this morning, carrying his breakfast dishes.

“Cream cheese mints for Vera’s wedding.”

“That’s nice.”

“Not really. I don’t like them.” (My deepest apologies to all of the wonderful mint-makers whose mints I have been offered and eaten over the years. The first time I had one, many years ago, I didn’t know what I was eating, and the texture and the taste weren’t what I was expecting. I’ve never been able to enjoy them since that first unhappy surprise.)

Husbandly double-take. “Then why are you making them?”

“Because your mother made them for Caroline’s wedding.”

“Ahh. . .”

Grief hits at random times. My most recent visitation of grief had been in the store while I was ordering Vera’s wedding cake. The store was cram-packed full of all of the baking minutiae that real bakers (i.e. not me) desired. Near the cash register was a display of mint-making materials. As I was waiting for my cake order to be totaled, I suddenly remembered that June had made mints for Caroline’s wedding. When she had offered to make mints at the time, I recall being only mildly thrilled (remember, I don’t like the things), but they truly had added a lovely touch to the reception. Impulsively, I decided that Vera would have mints for her own wedding, and that I would make them as an homage to her grandmother.

The wedding-cake lady got me all of the equipment I would need for my mints, handed me a recipe, and walked me through it. She even gave me her cell-phone number, in case I needed mint-making advice. A few days later, I received a similar offer of assistance from an experienced mint maker in church.

I woke up early this morning and decided that today would be Mint Day. I had my printed instructions, I remembered some of what I had been told, and I figured I had it under control.  After all, I have a doctorate. Surely I could follow a recipe and make mints.

It turns out that my doctorate is in ministry, NOT in mint making, and that there is a huge difference between the two.

I did okay with the instructions until it came time for molding. It seemed fairly simple. Dust the mold with sugar, take a clump of the dough, press it into the mold, and pop it out. Repeat 144 times, and you’re done. No problem, right?

My mints did not pop out of the mold. They were recalcitrant, introverted mints who did not want to leave the confines of their mold. I might be able to squidge them out, or splort them out, or smush them out, but they did not pop out. Once a mint has been squidged, splorted, or smushed, it bears strikingly little resemblance to the heart or flower shape of the mold.

I was ready to call for expert advice, but I was thwarted by the early morning hour. I didn’t want to roust someone out of bed because of my misshapen mints. I kept soldiering along, trying different methods until things got better. After the first few dozen, I began to get the hang of it. Sort of.

It’s the thought that counts, and these mints are in memory of a loving woman who would have made them herself in heartbeat if she’d been able. As it is, I only hope that people look at them in muted candlelight, not close-up.

(And that I don’t have to eat one myself.)