Dear God,
Thanks for being awesome. You always know just what I need,
and even it greets my present condition like the BP oil spill greeted the Gulf,
I know that if I wade through the muck, there’s a shining reason for it on the
other side. Thanks for my kids. They’re not perfect, but neither am I, and
together we make an imperfect concoction that somehow just works. When the kids
decide to stink up my truck while waiting in line to drop their little sister
off, I think a lot of mom’s would be disgusted and proceed to lecture them on
manners. But that’s not how you made me. You made me to delight in locking the
windows and smiling through the pain while they gag on their own farts. Our
little family is like carrots and Nutella:
a little offensive at first glance, but surprisingly pleasant when you
give it a chance.
Thanks for my husband, too. He’ll come home after catching a
red-eye flight from D.C. and just smile when he comes in. Emma runs up to greet
him with her hair pulled up in a unicorn horn, and Bubby’s chasing her with a
Bounty tube on his head, yelling “I’m a manicorn, I’m a manicorn!” Rae-Rae’s
sitting on the couch laughing at You only know what, dropping bottom bombs like
it’s Hiroshima. But my knight in shining armor walks in and sees me, in my
fourth straight day of flannel pants and a sweatshirt, with tears streaming
down over my smile, clutching the pearls, sobbing “Honey, I did it! I found out
why Leroy’s eyes are crossed! Thank you, Jesus!” It’s not just any man that will come home to that
and know that everything’s just as it
should be.
Since I’ve got you on the line, could you tell me if there’s
one Mr. Sam Walton up there with you? If so, I’d be much obliged if you could
give him a message for me. You see, I went to do my weekly grocery shopping
trip this morning, and I’d done really well. No extra junk, all of the fixings
for my weekly menu, and maybe, just maybe, a couple bucks under budget. This
nice little lady wearing a name badge offers to ring me up on a self-checkout
lane. (That’s kind of ironic, huh?)
Well, in the meat department, I apparently
got there right after the manager did mark-downs, so I had several yellow tag
items. A long time ago, I would’ve never bought clearance meat, but when you're walking down the bread aisle and hear little Miss Sunbeam chanting "bend over and I'll show ya!", you've got to make some sacrifices.
So she’s ringing me up, and a pack of marked down round
steak wouldn’t ring up the right way. She scans everything else, and beams me
up to the Self-Checkout observation register. She tries to void out the
overcharged item, but it voids out the reduced price, so I’m still getting’ the
short end of this stick. Seven grey hairs later, she calls over a CSM to
override it. By the time my transaction is finished, there are five, count them….FIVE,
Wal-Mart managers and cashiers trying to ring up this dad gum piece of meat.
Now, Mr. Walton, once upon a time, customers would get a break if they’d waited
30 minutes to pay for something in your store. But guess what I got? The
generosity of the CSM to go put the meat back in the meat department because
THEY WOULDN’T SELL IT TO ME! They could not override the price the way it ‘should
be’ done, and they refused to sell it to me. Sorry kids, looks like it’s gonna
be Spam and gravy this week.
Lord, I thank you again for your many blessings. Bless my
hands as I prepare our meals, though mystery meat they may now contain. I look
forward to talkin’ to you again later today, and if you could give Sam that
message, I’d greatly appreciate it. And Father, I know I still ain’t Catholic,
but this whole Wal-Mart thing has put darkness in my heart this morning. But
that’s why you are God, and I’m just me. I don’t know how you do it…just trying
to be good wears me out.
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