He'll Show Us How

I don't remember the first time I met a Japanese person.  Or a Guatemalan or a German or a Persian or a Somalian. I grew up in Northern Virginia where everybody is from everywhere and I was surrounded by every nationality from as early as I can recall.  You can drive down a street and see Korean Barbecue next to Dunkin Donuts across from El Pollo Loco which just happens to be jammed up against a building boasting the best Thai and Peruvian Chicken in town.  You drive into neighborhoods that transport you to different countries entirely.  And I love it.  You'll never get me to say I miss rush hour or the way an inch of snow brings the beltway to a dead stop for 3 hours, but I do miss the melting pot of people.  To me it's just the feel of home.

And I never knew that diversity better than when I worked my first job at McDonald's.  There I was. A very naive and incredibly  nervous 16 year old kid with my mauve McDonald's shirt, matching visor, and those horrible big black shoes that were supposed to protect my toes from third degree burns if the the french fry oil happened to boil over.  All ready for my first day. It was kind of horrible! I was struggling through, trying to learn how to dump the dirty mop bucket, find where the extra cups were stored, and how the heck to key in a McChicken sandwich with no mayo. And the customers? I remember this one guy waiting while I tried to delete all the wrong stuff on the screen and find the total button and then try to add in the drink I forgot.  He rolled his eyes and said, "Lemme guess. It's your FIRST DAY right?" I pretended to reach down and pick up a piece of trash off the floor so I could blink away tears.  It kinda makes me smile now, but then. Oh my heart! But good came out of it.  Because to this day, if I see someone struggling to learn a job, watch out.  I'll be your cheerleader.  Giving you encouragement and expressing my thanks and giving you your own personal little self-esteem party on checkout 6.  Til it becomes awkward and the husband quietly slips away to wait by the door.

What got me through were my co-workers.  They were helpful and patient and really genuinely kind.  Of about 50 people on the crew, my sister and I were the only American born team members.  Everyone else, like the good northern Virginians they were, were from everywhere else.  I remember my friend Tam from Vietnam.  She was this tiny little lady who walked with an extreme limp.  I would see her struggle  with the big trash bags and offer to run them out, but she'd always say, "I got it honey. I got it. Tam very strong." Proven by the fact that she walked about 3 miles every day to get to work.  And always so happy.  Her smile never bigger than when she talked about her son getting straight A's and applying to go to the American college.  Carmen made the best dang pancakes you ever ate. She was from Nicaragua and spoke very little English. But she knew enough that when a customer got done yelling at me one Saturday morning she  whispered "No worry. Stupid customer!"  in my ear the next time she walked by.  I laughed and gave her a high five.

But more than anything, our crew was made of Muslims.  Dear people representing many different countries. Sharanjit was from India. She was quiet and calm and a great boss.  I saw her fish a dollar out of her own pocket now and then when a kid was 80 cents short.  She was kind like that. And beautiful. She stopped in once in her traditional clothes looking like a Disney princess just back from a magic carpet ride.  Her jet black hair down her back and her bright fuchsia lipstick matching all the brilliant pinks and oranges and reds in her clothes. Sharanjit was friends with Rebecca who spoke a few of the same dialects as her.  They would rattle off to each other and I would just be entranced. Rebecca was hilarious. She and I had this thing we would do to put ignorant customers in their place. They'd march in and when they were politely greeted by Rebecca in perfect English, they'd stand back and point at me. "I'll wait for her! I want someone that speaks ENGLISH."  Well despite the fact that Rebecca spoke four languages in addition to English, she wouldn't bat an eye. She'd offer a polite, "Of course sir."  When he was finished ordering, she'd come up next to me and say, "Ruthie?" And then she'd TAKE OFF.  Talking a mile a minute in whichever dialect she picked and nodding at the man and smirking a little and acting like she was saying all kinds of things about him and I'd nod a lot and finally give a dramatic eyeroll along with a "seriously I know" at the end of it all.  And there that guy would stand, trying to figure out if we were insulting him or not and wondering how the heck this white girl spoke fluent Tamil with her boss.  It would usually fluster them enough to get them out the door and then Rebecca and I would just die laughing. "Good job Ruthie!" she'd say. "Now go sweep and mop."  Rebecca was 6 months pregnant with a long-awaited child when I left for college that fall. When I popped back in at break, she smoothed the head of the stuffed bear I was holding but wouldn't take it. "No Ruthie. My baby died." I stood there in shock while she took the next order. She wasn't an extremist. Or a religious nut. She was just a momma.  Tearing out the next receipt with tears in her eyes.

Sonny was a cool guy. Between stocking the napkins and re-packing the freezer, he'd tell me bits and pieces of his story. How hard he had worked to get to this country legally.  How proud he was to share a tiny efficiency apartment in Boston with a friend. Until one day he walked through his front door to find everything gone.  He had been robbed and there was literally nothing left.  "Every shirt. Every pants. Every paper," he told me. And then he went on to say how lucky he was to have a cousin living in Virginia so he could try again. Not sure what his given name was, but I thought his American choice of Sonny fit very well. Vishal was a hoot.  He asked me to marry him at least once every shift. At first I thought he was just having fun, but then one of his friends told me if he didn't get his temporary visa renewed soon, he was going to be sent home.  He was persistent and I felt sorry for him. I'd say, "Vishal my friend, we have nothing in common. We don't even know each other!" And he'd answer back soberly, "I know that I love you my rose." I'm pretty sure I still have at least one of his written proposals stashed away somewhere, complete with sketches of roses and his declarations of undying love.  Fareed was the big boss.  He was manager of our store and one other store.  I don't think the man ever slept.  The hours he kept were insane. He'd give me life advice every time he dropped by.  "You're too quiet Ruth.  You have an education and important things to say. Speak up!" He said he'd give me a raise if I would come to him on my own and demand what I deserved.  It was like asking a mouse to roar. I just couldn't do it.  Eventually, he not only gave me a raise, but he also entered my name for a $1000 college scholarship. Showed up at the Hilton McDonald's banquet in a tie and everything to present it to me himself.  He taught me a lot. Regesh was a dear man.  He came in at management level and didn't even know how to scoop fries.  He was so humble and sweet that first day. "Please," he asked me quietly.  "Will you help me learn all this?"  I learned later he came in as management because he held two engineering degrees and one business degree back home.  None of which transferred to his new country.  So there he was, this brilliant accomplished man,  struggling to reconnect the Sprite hose out back and listening to customers belittle him when their Big Mac wasn't to their liking.  Embracing his new life with so much dignity.

But probably my very favorite of all was Freidun. He was from Afghanistan and he was the most melodramatic, expressive, hysterical guy I'd ever met.  Tall guy but so so skinny.  He had a little black mustache and a big goofy smile. He liked to show off his new English curse words but he wasn't always sure how to pronounce them.  So he'd come to me and go down a long list of words to be sure he was saying them correctly.  I would blush as red as the French fry boxes and mumble that I wasn't sure. "Ok ma'am no problem." I was always ma'am to him.  When he was squeezing by it was a big booming, "Secuse me Ma'am. Secuse me!" One day, I couldn't help but laugh out loud and tell him the phrase he was looking for was "Excuse me!"  He loved that he made me laugh and for the rest of the time I worked there, he would never let a shift go by without reaching around me with a jolly "Secuse me Ma'am!" and a twinkle in his eye.  One night, there was a carnival going on outside that got a little rowdy.  Around 10pm, a man ran full speed into our McDonald's and locked himself in the bathroom.  Close on his heels were about four police officers, their hands on their guns and yelling for everyone to get out.  Well the customers beat it out of there but we didn't know what to do.  I ducked down behind the counter while the police swarmed in front of the bathroom door demanding for the man to come out and put his weapon on the ground.  The word weapon was enough to do me in right there.  I kept thinking that I really, really did not want to die next to a box of apple pies. As I sat there hunched over and shaking, I felt Freidun squeeze his skinny little body close to mine and place his hands over my head.  "Don't worry ma'am. I protect you."  And you know?  I believe he would have.  Given his life to protect mine.  In fact, I know that he would have.

Do we need to stop the jihadists?  The extremists that are kidnapping and raping children and murdering thousands and sneaking into countries with the sole purpose of destroying them? Absolutely.  And God help them if we find them because He will be their only hope.

But I guess I just wanted to remind myself that people are people.  And for every Muslim terrorist, there are thousands of decent, peace-loving, dear Muslim neighbors that would hunch over a scared teenager and protect her with their lives.  I admit that I can't completely figure out how to hate the terrorism without it effecting how much I love our Muslim neighbors. Or how to show our Muslim friends Christ's generous compassion while telling them we will hunt down and kill the terrorists that live among them. There are plenty of articles floating around debating the balance between fighting for our survival and fulfilling our call to compassion.  I'm sure people much smarter than I am can take on the issue with confidence.  But for me, I just wanted to remember that the billions of people in this world are all made in the likeness of God.  Created by Him and for Him.  And if we listen closely enough, He will show us how to walk this tightrope with grace and strength.

The Worry Train

I remember the days when the baby only let me sleep 4 hours a night and the 1 year old woke up daily from a great sleep ready to go. And go and go and go. And I worried that I let him watch too much Wiggles and that he didn't play outside enough and that the baby would think we didn't love him. Because he WAS kinda hard to like sometimes. And I worried that the husband would forget what I looked like. The real me. Because he only saw zombie me and I was too tired to tell him how much I adored him. Worry after worry that were just tearing my heart out. And I remember one morning thinking..."If the kids would just sleep one night. One whole night! I wouldn't have to worry about all this stuff and I could just be happy." 

And then there was a blur of days and weeks and months. And I looked up and the kids weren't babies anymore. And I noticed the Wiggles hadn't permanently brain damaged anyone, the big one spent hours chasing ants down the driveway, and the baby had carved an indelible place in all our hearts. And the husband. Well he had seen me all along. And when he pulled me around the corner to kiss me senseless when he got home from work, I sighed with relief. We had made it. All the way through the valley of the shadow of babies and toddlers. And we were still us. I could stop worrying.

SAID NO ONE EVER.

Of course I couldn't stop worrying. I just traded in my old worries for newer, bigger, scarier ones. Too much Wiggles? I laughed at my own stupidity. Breaking their brain was nothing compared to hurt feelings and screen time fights and first cavities and choosing preschools. Or the big Kahuna. Giving them the wrong answers! I gulped when Wesley asked why people stop being married and what soldiers do at the war and why God made tornadoes. Not sleeping was lookin' like a piece of cake from here sister! But I manned up. I learned that milkshake medicine helps when your friend says you're weird. I secretly swapped out juice for flavored water. I toured schools like nobody's business and I googled stuff. A lot. 

And I remember the day I stayed in the car for a minute while the boys ran into the house and I thought to myself in that quiet moment. "My stomach hurts from all this worrying. If I could just..." Just what? Just get them safely to middle school? You know that place where all the puberty mixes so well with the sexual experimentation and recreational drugs. Or just get them to high school? Because I'm sure worry will be the last thing on my mind when they're driving home from the football game with all their buddies on Friday night. Or maybe if I could just raise them in a world where there was no dysfunctional families or nuclear threats or natural disasters prompting questions I couldn't answer because I didn't understand them myself. And then it finally dawned.

There is always gonna be something to worry about.

I understand that's not breaking news for anyone else. But it was for me. And incredibly demoralizing news at that. Because I hate worrying! So when all this stuff is going down with my kids and I'm tied in knots and I realize that there's no gettin' off the worry train, what in the world was I supposed to do? I knew the answer but I didn't like it.

Matthew 6:25-26
"Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life...Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns (NOR INTERFERE UNNECESSARILY, NOR SPEND HOURS GOOGLING, NOR CRY OVER ENDLESS HYPOTHETICALS), and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?"

There was my answer. In black and white. And from God Himself. His thoughts on the matter?
Stop. Just stop. Stop worrying. Let me take care of you. So I let that sink in and I waited for some great tsunami of relief to overwhelm me in waves. But it didn't happen. And I knew why. It was embarrassing to admit then, and it still is today. It was a secret I had never admitted to anyone. Not even to myself.

I didn't really hate worrying. I actually liked it. 

In fact, I loved it! I spent a lot of time doing it. It was my go-to cope for when the hard stuff came. And maybe the most shocking confession of all. It made me feel better! I understand logically that makes no sense. Worry can't change a diagnosis or fix a marriage or fill up a bank account or (cringe) protect your kids. So why do I do it? Because it makes me feel like at least I'm doing SOMETHING to help. And that lie? It comes straight from the enemy. He'd like us to think that replaying scenarios, and working out endless what-if's, and wearing out our fingers on search engines is what we should do. Is all we CAN do really. But as always, he's feeding us a lie to keep us from the truth. To keep us leaning on our own understanding instead of leaning into God's everlasting arms.

Because here's more of what God has to say on the subject.

"Do not be anxious about anything...but let your requests be made known to God." Phil. 4:6
"Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you..." Psalm 55:22
"Cast all your anxiety on Him for He cares for you..." I Peter 5:7
"I will fear no evil for you are with me..." Psalm 23:4
"When I am afraid, I will trust in you." Psalm 56:3
"The Lord is my Helper, I will not be afraid..." Hebrews 13:5
"When the cares of my heart are many, your consolation cheers my soul." Psalm 94:19

So I'm not even about to say that I've got this thing down. (This morning I spent ten minutes worried the big one would forget to turn in his lunch order and go hungry.) But I'm trying. And when I get it right and refuse to believe the lies of the enemy and turn to my Father instead, He is always there. So here's to trying again. Learning to trust Him with our biggest stuff. Cuz it sure beats worrying. And middle school is comin' for us momma!