Good Manners

I have been really shocked lately at the lack of good manners people exhibit during their daily exchanges. Whether at work, church, out in public - manners, it seems, have gone down the drain.

I was at work for a short time today and saw a co-worker. She was tying up a phone call and she looked harried and upset. She finished the call and I asked her what was wrong. She said that the person on the other end of the phone was angry and yelling at her. Get this, about something that my friend and co-worker had no control or decision making power over. It made me mad. Why? Why act like a jerk to someone you well know hasn't the authority to get you what you want? Would you act that way to the person who does have that authority? I'd bet not. You'd be peaches and cream, butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. But to belittle and deride someone in a lower position? That stinks - big time. If you wouldn't say it to the boss, you probably shouldn't say it to an underling. 

And don't even get me started on church folks. In my opinion they're the worst. I ran into one of those ladies in the store a few Sunday's ago and it all came flooding back. And it is the reason, get this, the #1 reason I refuse to go to church is this: catty, self-absorbed people who think their poo doesn't stink, getting upset and in a huff about what you do, what you don't do, what you wear, what you allow your children to wear, whether you drink cola, if you drive the right minivan, if you wear a white shirt, if you don't wear a white shirt, if your kid earns an Eagle, if your kid doesn't, if you have your photo taken in an orchard, if you don't and just manage candid snapshots or, heaven-forbid, Sears, if you shop at a chi-chi store and organize your home worthy of a pinterest spread. It just sucks. I watched it all my life. I watched people I loved getting run-over and railroaded into feeling like crap-on-a-stick because they didn't get to their canning that summer, or their kids were wild. And every Sunday I'd escape to the cemetery across the street and walk where it was quiet. And the thought I had was this: these people don't mind who I am, or what shortcomings I possess, they're gone, hopefully to heaven, and they now have the big picture. They know what matters, and it ain't canning, and it isn't who does what job at church, and it isn't how "perfect" you manage to look while sitting in that pew, seething at your husband and your children, and your church family because there is no way in Hell that anyone can be as perfect as you kill yourself trying to be. I loved my quiet Sundays with people who'd gone on. I felt closer to my creator there in the silence than I ever did confined in the burlap walls of a prison across the street. And yea, there were good people there. And they were the ones who didn't expect that you be perfect. They did their jobs quietly. They didn't care if they were stuck in nursery or teaching the 5 year olds. It wasn't about that to them. They were serving their Lord in the way they were asked. They didn't talk negatively about anyone. They had respect. For everyone. They didn't get in a huff because someone did something differently than they would, or not to their liking - they were just grateful that someone was doing it at all. They knew the truth. Everyone poops, everyone fails, falters, and fears. They were the ones who got in and did the work. They were the ladies and men who, more likely than not, were not out schmoozing in the cultural hall - they were the ones doing the dishes in the kitchen. They were the ones who put their arm around you when you were a lonely teenager who just needed someone to understand the pain. Their smiles lit up like Christmas when they saw you out in public. They were the ones who bore their crazy testimonies on Fast Sunday, making you cringe a little bit at how much they let it all hang out. But you could feel the light coming off of them like an angel's halo. And they - got - it. They're still the ones who talk to me in the grocery store. They don't give a rat's testicles that I have a couple of tattoos, that I wake up drinking coffee, that I struggle. They'd be the first people to welcome me back to church and remember my name to boot. To just accept. I could probably still call any single one of those people if I were in real trouble. But the other folks? Nada. It is always strings, it is alway stabbing - in the back, in the front, in your own home, at the ball field. And it just is not worth it to me. I hope people think about these things. Is it really worth driving people off and away because you need to feel superior in some way? Do you really think that your Heavenly Father cares one bit about all that stuff? I'd be willing to bet not. And so, when I get where we go after this crazy-ass merry-go-round, I'm going to say this: "Nope, I did not can, I did not sew. I tried, I may have failed miserably, but at least I didn't take down anyone with me in my miserable quest to be something I was never meant to be on this earth. I'm not perfect, you didn't make me to be. I did a lot of bad, and I like to think I did some good. And if you let me in, please stick me next door to that crazy lady who bore her testimony and made me cringe, I'll bet she'd have some damned good stories and it looks like I've got time for a few."