I do a lot of work from home these days.
In this day and age it is easy. Working
from home can get old quickly though. Soon
enough you will find yourself juggling quarterly reports due by Friday with
defrosting dinner and doing a couple of loads of laundry. Then you add “Jerry Springer” into the mix, although
you would never admit to that publicly. You
know it is time to change your ways when you start scheduling conference calls
so that you can still watch “Ellen” and “The View”.
Especially, if you are a man, like me. When you hit that point it is time to take
your act on the road.
Panera’s was crowded last Christmas Eve
and I was in a foul mood. I parked my
old truck closer than I should have to a shiny new Mercedes, obviously driven
by a wealthy, blue nosed snob, so that they would have a hard time getting into
their fancy car. Then I slung my laptop
case over my shoulder, and off to my satellite office I went. The line was long. Long lines don’t bother me anymore. Having lived in a house full of women for all
of my adult life, I have learned how to deal with long lines. The best way to deal with long lines is to
eavesdrop on the people in front of you.
That way when you sit down, you can talk about
the people in front of you and judge them. As wrong as that is, that is what I do. That was the start of something amazing last
Christmas Eve.
The couple in front of me was older than
me by about twenty years. I judged them
to be married and middle to lower class, right away. I am always right about these things. As
I stared high above them at the menu board, I listened in to every word that
they said. They talked about what they
were going to order, then they talked about how they missed their children and
grandchildren, and then their conversation took a startling turn. They began talking about how grateful they
were about a homeless shelter in town. How
grateful they were that they had a place to spend both this Christmas Eve and
Christmas Day with their family. As I
listened in, the line began to move more quickly.
It was around that point that I could not
listen any longer. Not because I didn’t
want to, but because my mind started racing. Racing with thoughts of how bad the economy
has been in recent years. Thoughts of
how many people have been so terribly affected like the old couple in front of
me. Thoughts of how grateful I am that
my family has been able to somehow squeak by, with most of the financial burden
falling on my wife, Trixie. Thoughts of
how much I appreciate her efforts and patience in allowing me to get my own
business off the ground. Thoughts of the
future and building my business so that I can return to my family the gift that
they have given me. Thoughts of my
efforts, and successes, and failures. Thoughts
of me. I caught myself thinking of me, and silently chastised myself for my
selfishness. While I shamed myself for
my selfishness, I ignored the fact that I was eavesdropping. In my mind, I realized how often I see a
situation like the old couple in front of me and how quickly their situation
becomes all about me. The line was
moving faster now.
“Next,” the cashier named Tina said, and
the couple in front of me ordered. They
did not order much and I felt bad for them.
“That will be six twenty two.” Tina the
cashier said to them. The wife pulled a
card from her purse and swiped it.
“I’m sorry ma’am,” Tina said, “Do you have
another card?”
“No, we don’t,” said the old lady.
“I’ve got it.” A voice that sounded like
mine said. And before I realized what I
was doing, I added a large coffee to their order, and handed Tina the cashier a
twenty.
“You don’t have to do that, we...” The old
man said. I interrupted him before he
could finish.
“No, I do have to do this. It is Christmas time. This is the time of year to give. Breakfast is on me this morning. Merry Christmas!” I said. Before the old man could say anything more,
the old lady grabbed his arm firmly.
“Why thank you son!” the old lady said,
“And Merry Christmas to you too.”
I felt like a million dollars and I took
my coffee and settled down to get to work in a booth with an outlet so I could
plug in my laptop. A few minutes later I
looked up and something through the window caught my eye. I saw the little old lady squeezing her tiny
frame between my truck and that Mercedes. She got into the Mercedes, driven by her
husband, and left. In those few seconds
I felt like a victim. Conned. Duped. Taken
advantage of. Feeling sorry for myself. I tried to get back to work. My self-pity wouldn’t let me do that though. Just a few minutes before I was feeling sorry
for the world. Only a few seconds later
I was feeling sorry for myself. I had to
get out there. This would be a bad Christmas
for me. I could feel it. How fast it turns into all about me.
As I was walking toward my truck, and
glaring at the empty space next to it, I began to get angry. I opened the door and slung my laptop into the
back. When I turned around I noticed a
note under the windshield wiper.
“Geez.” I said out loud to no one. I opened the window and reached around to
pluck it from the windshield. I had
expected it to say “Sucker!” or something like that. As I opened it I saw
the most beautiful and exact handwriting I have ever seen, and a $100 gift card
to Panera’s.
“My husband was worried you may have hit
our car while you were parking. Thank
you son, for parking so carefully. Thank
you for your kindness too. It gets more
and more rare every day. We would have
thanked you again in person but you looked so busy on your computer. We have
learned, through our years together, to appreciate kindness and to return
kindness whenever possible. Any gift
given is greater than any gift you can receive. So, to thank you for your kindness, when our
Panera’s card ran out, we got you a new one as well. If you are still in the giving spirit you can
join us and our family serving dinner at the homeless shelter tonight and on
Christmas Day. It is a truly wonderful
way to give, on the holiday that celebrates giving. Merry Christmas!"
I could tell you, now, how I felt. But suddenly, it’s not all about me anymore.
That is all.
