A Checkout Lane Heart Check

I’m in the checkout lane at the grocery store. My cart is full with a week’s worth of food. The cashier scans items belonging to the customer in front of me, and the conveyer belt creeps forward. Soon there will be enough room for me to start unloading my own groceries. 

I grab a bag of apples out of my cart just as a woman walks up behind me.  I turn, and I see she’s carrying only a box of cereal and a roll of paper towels.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Would you like to go ahead of me?”

The woman immediately places her items on the belt, then moves in front of me. She doesn’t thank me. She doesn’t even look at me.

And now I’m mad.

Mad that she would behave so rudely. Mad that I let her cut ahead of me. I want to repo my generosity. I blessed her, and she didn’t deserve it.

The cashier’s scanner blips as he scans the woman’s groceries. He reads off the woman’s total, and she fumbles through her purse.

And for the first time, I look closely at her. Her makeup is smeared at the corner of her eye, like she has been crying. She pulls a credit card out of her purse. She swipes her card, then wipes at her eye with the palm of her hand.

I have no idea what is going on in this woman’s life, but something is obviously wrong.

And this clearer view of this woman has given me a clearer view of my own heart.

I had assumed that I am the one who should decide who does and doesn’t deserve to be blessed.

I’m ashamed. I judged this woman unworthy of going ahead of me in line. But I myself am an unworthy and ungrateful recipient of the greatest gift of all. And the salvation that Christ has given me isn’t contingent on anything I do. In fact, it’s in spite of everything I do.

The woman grabs her bag and leaves. I’ll never know what she is going through today. But I’ll remember the lesson that she taught me.

From now on, I’ll focus on blessing others. And I’ll let God be the one to decide who deserves to be blessed.

Crossing the Bar

My family and I are sitting on the back patio of one of my favorite restaurants. This is the halfway point between home and my new apartment. The hour-and-a-half drive was a long one on a weeknight, but we had to celebrate.

“Passing the bar exam is a big deal,” my dad says. His voice is serious, but he’s also smiling. “Remind me,” he says. “Why do they call it the bar?”

“There’s an actual bar in most courtrooms,” I say. “It divides the attorneys from the people watching the trial. You can’t pass that physical bar without passing the exam.”

My dad nods. “I’m so proud of you,” he says. “This is an accomplishment that sets you apart.”

I mull over his words. I don’t feel set apart. In fact, all day I’ve been reflecting on the people who God has placed alongside me. The people who helped me get to this point and who helped make me into the man I am.

My mom, who taught me to love learning. Who read me books until their bindings fell apart. Who taped those books back together and read them another hundred times.

My dad, who showed me that the most fulfilling thing you can do with your life is to fill other people up.

A boss who taught me the pride of working until my hands were raw.

A firefighter who held me when I was fading.

A girl who taught me how to laugh, how to love, then how to let go.

A friend who was brave enough to call out my fault when I was ignorant to it.

I still interact with some of these people daily. Others I haven’t talked to in years. Still, each was a part of my life when I needed them. So when I finally enter the courtroom as an attorney, I’ll remember those people and the One who brought us together. Without them, I’d never be able to cross that bar.

A Change of Perspective

I’m at my parents’ house for the weekend. My eleven-year-old brother Isaiah and I are on the back porch. Isaiah is trying out an old spyglass I picked up in an antique shop yesterday. I’m on my phone checking the site where bar exam results will be posted.

No results yet. I refresh the screen.

Still no results. I refresh the screen.

“This thing is broken,” Isaiah says. “I can’t see anything.” His hands clutch the spyglass. Its tripod sits on the deck railing. Isaiah has adjusted the spyglass so it’s aimed at an oak leaf a few inches down the railing.

“You have to look farther,” I say. “You’re too close to that leaf.”

I return to my phone, refreshing it again. I know it’s highly unlikely that results would be posted on a weekend. But I’m afraid. I spent three months studying for this test. I spent three years in law school before that. I need to know that I passed.

“Still broken,” Isaiah says.

I look up from my phone. The oak leaf is now about a yard farther down the railing. Isaiah is peering into the spyglass with one eye. The other is squinted shut, the eyebrow above wrinkled with concern.

“You’re still way too close.” I set my phone down, then I turn the spyglass away from the railing and toward the tree line. I look through the spyglass and twist it so it telescopes out. A tree comes into focus. I scan around until I find a bird’s nest, then I carefully let go of the spyglass.

“Look through it now,” I say.

Isaiah eases his face toward the lens. Then he smiles. “This is cool,” he says. “It’s so much better than just looking at that blurry leaf.”

He’s right. And even though I want to pick up my phone and check it again, I restrain myself.

I don’t want to be so distracted by my fears that I miss the good things God has given me. I could check for bar results another dozen times, but the test results will post whether or not I constantly refresh my screen. And my time with Isaiah is limited.

So instead of dwelling on my fear, I spend the morning with Isaiah. We use the spyglass to spot birds and plants and our yellow lab roaming the yard. I’ll check for test results later this afternoon.

But for now, I'm focused on the bigger picture. 

Trail of Faithfulness

I sit on the bank of the lake, legs dangling in the water. My family vacations here at the end of each summer, and it’s evident why. The lake is stunning. The water begins clear and colorless but deepens to opaque navy as the lake bed drops. The entire lake is ringed with sturdy pines, making the air smell sharp and fresh.

I kick at the water. The sunlight glances off the lake’s surface, then dances in condensed ripples around my ankles. Everything out here is so peaceful.

Everything inside of me is in turmoil.

Next week I’ll start my first grown-up job. I’ll move across the state. I’ll pack up the last of my belongings from my childhood room. Anxiety and excitement and loss are muddled together in my chest, and I don’t know how to sort through them.

I often feel closer to God when I’m surrounded by nature. The power of his creation -- wind and green growth -- reminds me of his omnipotence. The minute details of his creatures, even the smallest mosquito, reminds me that I matter. But I can’t feel him today. Instead, I feel alone and lost.

Lord, where are you? How can I trust that you’ll lead me forward into this next stage of life?

I feel a tug deep down inside of me. And I realize that in looking forward, I’m forgetting to look back. This isn’t the first time I’ve stared at this lake with an unsettled spirit. Over the years, our family vacations had been shadowed by other changes in my life.

Three years ago, I was preparing to begin law school.

Five years ago, I had decided to take a hiatus from college.

Seven years ago, I was leaving home for the first time.

And each time, God had led me to new, good things. He had introduced me to incredible people and created joy in unexpected places. If I look backward, I can trace the trail of His faithfulness to this very moment. I’d wondered where I could find Him, but He’s been here all along.

So instead of sorting through the feelings I can’t make sense of, I’ll submit them to Him. He has a way of sorting things out.