This brought back such (disgusting) memories.
Oh my gosh. This doesn't even address the post-apocalyptic frozen food sale we had in a parking lot because of the over stock of Poppers. I should have also included that. Because who doesn't want to know about ministry people selling thousands of frozen Poppers out of the back of a box truck in a parking lot. (Shaking my head.) Yes, that happened.
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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter 1/Fullness of Potential
Part 3 (Previous post contain the rest of the chapter.)
I used to think that if I lived for God it meant I’d be sent to
Africa, and I don’t want to go to Africa. Or that living for God meant being
miserable. (It doesn’t.) Or that I had to do really unpleasant hard work, all
the time, and a lot of it. (It doesn’t.) And I’d have to do that work until I
was exhausted or dead. (Nope.) Or that somehow God wanted my penance like I had
to earn love and heaven. (Definitely not.) I tried to live like that, for a
while, and on my own power and it didn’t work very well or at all. I became
sick, angry, burdened and self-righteous; not the best version of myself. I
think God saw what I was doing and saved me from myself.
Slowly, I started seeing how cool God is about this “living”
thing we do.
There was a summer event that I helped with, where I
volunteered to run the Popper-Hopper as part of the fundraising. I am not
making this up. And I wish I was. I will forevermore despise jalapeno poppers, for-ev-er!
No offense intended to anyone who loves them. I am privy to different knowledge.
I knew it wasn’t for me, I knew that I should have let that
“opportunity” pass—but my work-hard-till-dead-or-crippled attitude didn’t allow
me to let it pass. I made some calls. Some great people showed up and did a
shift or two of dousing poppers or breaded cheese curds into hot oil. A few
minutes later there’d be golden, delicious gooey goodness. It seemed okay on
day ONE, the fried food still smelled good-- then I got home and still smelled
it and it was sickening.
Day two was less-okay, the cold oil in the morning was
disgusting, the waste oil was grotesque and the floor of this food cart was
slick not unlike and ice rink—however this also had a cool diamond plate
texture (p.s. diamond plate does not help create traction when sprinkled with
canola oil.)
Between shifts I’d run and do my other duties and then run
back to train the next group. My feet hurt. I’d step inside food cart and slide
on over to whoever needed training. It no longer smelled good. It started
feeling like there was a greasy jalapeno popper film all the way from my
nostrils into my lungs. ALL I could
smell was greasy cheesy spicy fried yucky-ness... People would tell me I
smelled good and ask where to find the poppers in passing. Not cool folks, not
cool.
I was relieved when day three began (that’s right, three
days); it was the last dangerous day of the cart experience. I step up and slid
across the floor, things weren’t put away right, it took a lot of extra effort
to open up because of that. People were
late, the cash box was late, the sun was really hot and made the stainless
steel counter impossible to touch, could easily burn you. Not to mention the
blinding glare from the stainless steel. Blind and burned and coated in oil.
Awesome.
One thing after another went wrong. Then HE showed up, HE
shall remain nameless but this person made for one of the absolute longest days
of my life. I probably would have gotten more done if I had stayed and done all
the work myself. Constant calls, constant complaint, constantly telling me how
it should have been run.
At the end of the day I thanked him for his time and closed
early. My boss, Greg, and I had to clean greasy trailer all the enclosed machines—it
had to be ready for the next event, closed up tightly and then hauled off. We
started scrubbing. A little chit chat later, in our bright yellow gloves, we
were up to our elbows cleaning out deep fryers. Then, poor Greg simply asked
how it went, I am still sorry about my reaction—utter indistinguishable sob filled
cry-talk. Dear Jesus, that poor man, and finally many minutes of tear-filled
ranting ended I was finished with the [insert explicative] Popper Hopper and poppers
once and for all. I still hate jalapeno poppers. But at least now, I don’t
immediately remember the gagging distain I once had.
Poppers--that primarily, well one very clear reason, why I let
God lead now. After that, the owners offered to sell the cart to our event--we
said “NO.” I think they may have been startled at the sharp, clear, concise and
quick “NO” they received.
Just one of many many many tasks I had at that job.
When finally I left that job, it was in a ministry, I’ve
never been more afraid. Pursing an art
teaching certificate and going back to school full-time seemed so outlandish.
It would take two full years! I was about to turn thirty to top it off. Was this a pre-mid-life crisis? The process
started slowly, recovering from a DIY faith isn’t an overnight task. It was a
series of “Do you trust me?” moments.
“Do, you trust me? It’s time to go.”
“Um, no. Not really. What if I work here part-time? Do evening
classes? Work from home?”
“It’s really time.”
“Well, what if I just do summers in school?”
“Do you trust me?”
It was obvious it was time to go, I was miserable and
exhausted. The hardest thing to reconcile: I had everything I was supposed to
want and I didn’t want any of it. Some days, I’d lay my forehead on my desk
until I could hear someone coming. I worked at a youth-centered faith-based
nonprofit as their graphic designer. It
was good for a while, really good. I loved it for years. Then I worked too
much, and some roles were changed, stress piled on and suddenly my stomach
wouldn’t stop hurting. Most days I felt more like a machine than a person. I
knew the right and acceptable things to say and do and none of it seemed to be
working. I felt like a failure, it was impacting all of my life, I felt like I
failed God, too.
I prayed for God to change me, marry me off, fix my boss,
deliver me from evil and then I prayed that God would change my circumstances
and help me to see opportunities. Don’t pray that prayer unless you are ready for
a real adventure, by the way. I have yet to go to Africa; don’t get me
wrong—I’m sure it is a nice place. I
have now been able to discern how what is in my heart can also be, and often
times is, what God wants for me.
It began one night in 2006. I always wanted to try teaching
but didn’t think I’d make it in an all-day classroom, it occurred to me I could
teach art.
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I think God is pleased when we try to make God happy. But
what I’ve learned is that God values peace and rest and wholeness. There are
verses about it all through the Bible. Things about balance, tithe, love,
light, correcting direction, gentle pressure and saying the hard things to help
people be healthy … it’s all in there.
The hardest truth, the one that’s easy to forget: when we
try to do it all ourselves and earn God’s grace, and love, we are trying to be
Jesus. He does a much better job than I ever could. So I need to let Him. When
I’m quiet and really honest with myself, I want God to carry all my
burdens—life goes a whole lot better when God is taking the hits and running
the Popper-Hopper.
