My husband and I decided to go out for Sunday Brunch Buffet.
Visions of Belgian waffles and fluffy scrambled eggs danced in my head. We arrived at the restaurant at precisely 11:00
a.m. and were greeted at the Host
station by a lady who looked at us and uttered one angry word, “Dinner!” as she
pointed over and behind her head at the sign which listed the prices for the
Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner Buffets. As
we stood there with confused looks on our faces, she once more spoke the word,
this time separating it into two distinct syllables for emphasis, “Din-ner”,
waving her finger over her head. “Do you understand?” I looked at my watch in
bewilderment, wondering where lunch had gone since apparently brunch was no
longer in existence, but she stared us down until we meekly acknowledged that
we understood, then we were charged approximately $15.00 each, because we chose
the more expensive option which included the beverage bar, and were released to
the buffet.
I assumed there would still be remnants of breakfast
somewhere, along with the “Dinner”, and as we walked up, sure enough I saw
scrambled eggs on the next serving table.
I pointed them out to my husband as I scooped up the hash browns I had spied
right in front of me, and then turned just in time to see a man whisking the
pan of eggs up, out and away from the serving line. All that remained of
breakfast were a few soggy pieces of bacon floating in several inches of hot
grease.
I resigned myself to eating “Din-ner”, grabbing some dry
chicken, macaroni and cheese and some mystery greens. I set my plate on our table and went to get
something to drink. I decided to console
myself with some white chocolate cappuccino, but couldn’t find any cups, only
glasses. I finally found someone who had
a name tag, and asked about cups. She
insisted that they were on the other side of the beverage bar, but we looked
together and there were none. She set
off to find some cups. I waited. When someone finally came out with a cart, I
took a cup and proceeded to get my cappuccino.
As I carried it back to our table I noticed it was dripping. At first I
thought I must have spilled some on the side, but as a puddle began to form in
the hand I was holding under the cup, I came to the conclusion that it was
actually leaking. I gingerly carried the
cup to an area where an employee had a large collection of dirty dishes. I told
her my cup was leaking. She motioned for me to drop it in with the rest of the
mess. I did, and went off to find
another cup.
I arrived back at our table with my non-leaky cup, only to
discover to my chagrin that I had neglected to get silverware. I trudged back to the buffet where I
encountered empty silverware containers everywhere I looked. Only a few stray soup spoons were
available. Finally, near the desserts I
was able to secure a fork and spoon, but no knife to cut the dry chicken. This
time, when I returned to the table I threw the utensils down, with my
cappuccino-sticky hand, plunked myself down in the booth and began loudly
proclaiming to pretty much the entire restaurant just how ridiculous this
was. I don’t even know all that I said;
something about “Like eating at K-Mart” and some other choice words. My husband looked astounded and asked if I
wanted to go. I indignantly insisted
that we had paid a “fortune” and I was determined to eat even if I choked on my
now cold “Din-ner”!
The employee who had looked for cups with me earlier
overheard my rant and got the manager, who came to find out why I was upset,
and I let him have it. In an attempt to
appease me he insisted on giving me his business card with the words “two free
meals” written on it, even though I let him know in no uncertain terms that I
would not be coming back. After he left
the table I ripped it up and left it there as the ultimate insult, and felt
good about it.
It wasn’t until we were on our way home that my husband and
I began to laugh hysterically at the experience, making references to the
Seinfeld episode about the Soup Nazi, likening that infamous television
character to the lady at the host station. “No Breakfast for You!” (If you haven’t seen it, you won’t get it,
but that’s okay.) It occurred to me that
I was glad I hadn’t been wearing a Christian T-shirt or cross necklace when I
pitched my public fit. I also thought, as I have many times before, that I’m
glad I preach that we are all, at the same time, sinners and declared by God to
be righteous, because I definitely practice what I preach. Am I proud that I
‘lost it’ in the restaurant? No. Am I
sorry? Probably not as sorry as I should be.
My point in sharing this story is to illustrate that, even
though Grace is the joy and light of my life, when things don’t go my way, I
can default in a heartbeat to Action/Consequence, and can be astonishingly
ungracious. The Death/Resurrection state
of mind—which acknowledges that there is nothing in any of us which deserves
God’s favor and that we are all totally dependent on his grace and mercy for
salvation—Is like a retreat I go to for R and R; but, functionally, I keep
coming ‘home’ to Action/Consequence—stubbornly treating people as if they should
be worthy, and when they are not, as if I have a right to shame or shun them
because of it. I’m not happy to admit this is the case. I long to reach a place where I can
truthfully say that I spend more time living out of Death/Resurrection
than Action/Consequence; but it’s a slow
go. And, if I get there, I’ll probably
be pretty self-righteous about it.
I’m brave enough to admit this to you because I know it’s
true about you, too. Every single one of
us is a mess! The major difference
between Christians and non-Christians, if we have our Gospel straight, is that
Christians know they only deserve damnation; but they also know they have a
Savior who already paid the price.
Noooo, I’m not saying that, because we have a Savior, we are
all free to run around sinning whenever and wherever we want, so that God’s
grace may abound (Romans 6:1); I’m saying that we do and we will sin, even
though we wish it wasn’t so; and God’s grace will always abound.