The Slow Line

If everyone was endowed with a superpower, then mine would be Finding the Slowest Checkout Line.  I am able to do it unfailingly, usually in exact proportion to how much of a rush I am in. Sunday at Costco was no different. 

After a full morning at church, followed by lunch with my husband, I decided to go to Costco.  Costco on Sunday afternoon is always a mob scene, but I needed to get a few things before the next version of winter hits tomorrow. It was as crowded as I expected. On the good news side of things, I was able to see most of my congregation while I gathered the few things I needed.  (We Methodists tend to have the same ideas at the same time.) I headed to the checkout lane and ended up in a line so short that I was able to start unloading onto the belt immediately.

Engage superpower.

My cart was about half unloaded when I realized that the conveyor belt was not conveying.  I looked up to see that we were waiting for a manager to help with the family in front of me. The manager was, unusually, nowhere to be seen. And so we waited. The manager arrived and curtly explained some membership issue to the family. Clearly, English was not this family’s first language, but things were resolved enough that the conveyor belt started moving merrily along. I resumed my unloading. And then the belt came grinding to a halt as I heard Len, our checker, telling the family that he wanted to get the manager again. This time, the manager came right away, and Len said, kindly, “I’m not sure this family understood what you were explaining last time. Could you do it again?” More slowly this time, the manager explained the issue.  Comprehension gleamed in their faces as they realized that they could save money with this one step that the manager was telling them. They happily followed his advice and received back more change than they had received initially.

In spite of my impatience, I was pleased for the family. And I realized that, during my waiting time, I had noticed that the folks behind me had some items that looked much yummier than what was in my basket. We struck up a friendly conversation as we waited together, although they never did offer me one of their chocolates.  A church member that I hadn’t seen earlier came up to me while I was waiting.  And, when it was my turn to check out with Len, he took extra time to get a bag to put over the fresh flowers I had picked up on impulse. “It’s cold out there, we don’t want them to get hurt,” he explained as he bagged them up.  

As I walked out to my car, I realized what a blessing that extra time in line had been. I had gotten to talk with two new friends and a church member.  Len had taken care of one family, and he had shown that same consideration to me and my flowers. Because of those encounters, I was smiling as I weaved through the ice in the parking lot.  And it occurred it me that maybe there is something special about my superpower after all.

The gift of mobility

I read an article recently about the importance of self-encouragement in running.  I’ve since lost the exact article and citation, but what I remember is along these lines:  Runners were put on a treadmill and asked to run as long as they could.  The next week, the same runners were put on the same treadmills. This time, however, half of them were told to say “I feel good, I can do this” to themselves as they ran. The group that said those things to themselves ran longer than they had the previous week, and they ran longer than the other group overall. 

I took that article to heart, and I have started to say those things to myself frequently when I run. Not only that, but I have added something else that makes sense to me, a prayer. I thought about the time when I had a broken femur in 6^th grade and had to re-learn how to walk after 3 months in traction and a body cast. I thought about the people that I know and care about that have physical limitations that prevent them from running. And so the prayer I have added is, “Thank you, God, for the gift of being able to run.” Now, when I’m running on the treadmill and getting tired and ready to convince myself that it’s time to quit, I thank God for the gift of the ability to run. I remind myself that I feel good (even if my body disagrees) and affirm that I can reach my goal.  It is working well for me. 

Until yesterday, that is.

It takes a special level of gracefulness to be able to slip and fall on snow- inside. I had put on my boots to run between the church building and the office building between the 2^nd and 3^rd services, so that I could refill my hot tea mug.  I made it successfully between the buildings and walked into the office.  Apparently, though, my boots still had snow on the bottom of them. I hit the kitchen linoleum, and my feet went up and I went down. Nothing was broken, but once I caught my breath, I realized that a few things were probably pulled. I got through the final service of the morning, tried (unsuccessfully) to give blood at our blood drive, and let Andy drive me home. After an afternoon of resting and ice, I planned to be fine this morning. 

My plans worked well until my feet hit the floor this morning. Ouch! My favorite chiropractor shared with me the encouraging news that I’ll feel even worse tomorrow. I’m sitting at my desk, with ice on the painful parts, taking Motrin as often as allowed.My gait is fairly reminiscent of The Mummy in the old movies, step-slide, step-slide.

I haven’t asked my favorite chiropractor yet when I’ll be able to get back to the gym.  Whenever I do get back to the gym, though, I’ll tell myself that I feel good, that I can do this workout. And then I’ll thank God once again for the gift of being able to run. Or walk. Because that gift should never be taken for granted, especially during a snowy winter.

Root Causes

At church, our St. Francis garden is being dug up by 4 guys and a backhoe because our sanctuary roof leaks. Really. Whenever it rains, a clogged drainage pipe backs up so much that it causes water to come through the roof of our sanctuary. The only way to fix the roof is to dig up the garden. Unfortunately, the hardy guys with the backhoe have been out there for eight hours and still haven’t found the offending pipe. Even St. Francis is getting a little worried that the backhoe is getting closer to him.

It’s surprising how often the cause of a problem is so far from the problem itself. I’ll never forget the time I went to the dentist with a toothache, only to have him tell me that my teeth were fine. I was feeling referred pain from a sinus infection.  I know of someone else who went to the hospital with a paralyzed foot and discovered a brain tumor. So often the root cause of our problem has little to do with the location of the pain itself.

I see a lot of impatient people during this time of year. I try to remember that the person who is angry with the fast food worker probably is carrying burdens that have nothing to do with how long it's taking to get his burger. The same likely holds true in line at the Post Office or driving along a crowded street. The root cause of that anger goes much deeper than long lines or a traffic jam.

When Christ came, we weren’t aware that we needed that type of Savior.  We thought our pain could be healed by a political or military hero. Instead, the solution to our hurt came in the form of a baby who preached peace and justice. It seemed to make as much sense as digging a hole in the ground to fix a leaky roof. And yet, our Savior came to us in our pain, and, even from his cradle, he brought us hope.  All these years later, we still find the healing for the root of our pain in the Christ child.