Tag: kindness

A Ministry of Mayhem.

Parents who do not teach their children to respect and obey actually prepare them for a life out of step with God’s Word and in step with the devils.

You might assume that a man styling himself a pastor would have a household that at least vaguely exhibits the teachings of Jesus.  You know, the kind of pastor who should be an example to society, a spiritual guide, a moral compass, and a weekly dispenser of authentic wisdom on the stage of his Fellowship Congregation.  You might even imagine that he’d model basic manners and modesty.

A long time ago, when I lived in a certain condominium, one such person paraded bare-chested in the condominium hallways and public sidewalks.  You’d probably would think that this “pastor” would’ve covered himself up and not parade around in public bare-chested.  By doing that, he was teaching his son well to do the same, which eventually happened, too.  As time when on, his pre-teen daughter was wearing low cut tops and belly-button-showing jeans and beachwear.

This particular family let their children throw out the family garbage, not through the garbage chute, but leave it hidden in the janitor’s closet until the odors compelled other residents to investigate.  The kids squirted soda or some sort of drink on the carpet in the elevator (I saw them do that just as the elevator door opened.)  If the parents double-checked their kids’ chores and where they were, they could’ve corrected them and set them on the right path.  Maybe.

Their children, old enough to know better, ran through the halls at all hours: dawn, mid‑afternoon, nearly midnight.  The thundering footsteps were so intense I occasionally wondered if the building had been repurposed as a training facility for buffalo stampedes.

And again, these were not toddlers.  These were pre‑teens, fully capable of understanding rules, boundaries, and the concept of “other people exist,” so be thoughtful!

The “pastor’s” wife, too, contributed to her own public ministry: it was an evangelization of scent so potent it could’ve knocked a person out.  It was so strong and long-lasting, it made the neighbors think she most likely applied the body lotions and colognes uncontrollably from head to toe.  Her cologne didn’t merely enter the hallways or elevator; it conquered, planted a flag, and dared anyone to challenge its sovereignty.  Her neighborliness went as far as waving at you with her arm behind her head, but never turning to face you and say, “hello.”

Maybe I’m all wet here; however, my thoughts always were that when a husband/father is a pastor of some wort, he guides his family on the path of holiness according to Jesus’ teachings and they all become a positive example to the neighborhood and to the world.  Yet, in that case I wrote about, they weren’t all that friendly, the kids were wild, and they sure solidified the neighbors’ opinions that a “pastor’s” family can be a shining example of what not to do.

In the end, it’s sad: a “pastor” who cannot shepherd his own household, a family whose public displays consists of hallway chaos, elevator dirtying, public undress, and overall disrespect towards neighbors.

But beneath all that sits a quieter truth.  When parents refuse to teach respect, discipline, and consideration, the world instead becomes their children’s classroom, and the lessons are rarely kind.  A household without order doesn’t just scandalize and inconvenience its neighbors; it forms a generation unprepared for the responsibilities, reverence, and self‑control that a faithful and respectable life requires.

 

 

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A Lesson in the Checkout Line.

A couple of weeks ago, we were in the checkout line at the grocery store, the kind of slow‑moving line that gives you time to observe more than you intended.  In front of us stood an elderly woman with a cart full of groceries and a look of growing concern.  Something was clearly wrong, though I couldn’t hear the details—because the man behind us had just answered his cell phone and immediately launched into a booming, play‑by‑play commentary of the situation.

He was delighted to narrate.  Absolutely delighted.  According to him, the woman had “decided not to pay for everything,” and the cashier was now forced to “re‑ring the whole cart,” and on and on he went, blah, blah, blah, embellishing freely, as if auditioning for the role of Town Crier of Checkout Line Four.

Meanwhile, the elderly woman stood quietly at the register, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands folded around her wallet.  She wasn’t dramatic, nor causing a scene.  She was simply trying to sort out whatever the problem was.

It wasn’t until later, after we’d checked out and were walking to the car, that my best friend, who had actually heard the real exchange, told me what had happened.  The woman’s EBT card hadn’t covered all her items, and she had tried to pay the remainder with a personal check, but the cashier couldn’t accept it for some unknown reason.  That was the entire “scandal.”  No theatrics.  No attempted grocery heist.  Just a woman trying to buy food and running into the quiet humiliations that come with limited means.

The man behind us, however, had been proudly broadcasting a story about her of his own invention, complete with moral judgments and imaginary plot twists.  He had turned her sad difficulty into laughable entertainment.

I thought about that on my ride home; the ease with which some people narrate other people’s struggles, the confidence with which they fill in the blanks, the laughs, the casual cruelty of assuming the worst when the truth is usually simpler, quieter, and far more human.

A checkout line can reveal more about character than we expect. Sometimes it’s not the person in trouble who tells the story; it’s the person who can’t resist telling the wrong one and laugh at a person’s misfortune.

 

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Unexpected Kindness (2).

About four years ago, we headed out for an early lunch before we ran our errands.  We ended up at a little grille tucked between a seedy-looking thrift store and a storefront mission, an unassuming spot that somehow serves some of the best home‑cooked meals in town.  We’ve never had a bad meal there.

The lunch crowd was thinning, and we slipped into a corner booth.  My spouse ordered steak and eggs; I chose a half tuna sandwich with cream of broccoli soup.  We talked about this and that, the kind of easy conversation that comes from years of companionship, and before long our plates were empty and we were ready to settle the bill.

At the counter, I noticed a woman—late forties, maybe early fifties—finishing her payment.  By the time we reached the register, she had already disappeared out the door.

Best Friend pulled out his debit card.

“It’s paid for,” the cashier said with a smile.

He blinked. “I’m sorry—what was that?”

“Your bill is paid for,” she repeated.  “The lady who was just here took care of it.  You owe nothing.”

We stood there, bemused into silence.  It’s one thing to read about this sort of thing in the newspaper; it’s another to find yourself on the receiving end of it.  All we could manage was a breathless, “Wow.  That was nice!”

The cashier smiled, and we left her a large tip—she had been our waitress, too, after all—before heading out into the afternoon.

Kindness like that stay with you.  They interrupt the ordinary rhythm of a day and remind you that goodness still moves quietly through the world.  You don’t always see it, and you can’t predict it, but every now and then it steps forward, taps you on the shoulder, and says, I’m still here.

 

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Unexpected Kindness (1)

Not long ago, we stopped at our favorite little diner for a simple breakfast.  The place was alive with the familiar bustle of morning— clattering dishes, the soft murmur of conversations, waitresses moving briskly from table to table with warmth and admirable organization.  Even in the busyness, there was a sense of comfort, the kind that comes from being in a place where people know how to take care of one another in small, steady, and professional ways.

When we finished eating, we waited for our bill, chatting and enjoying the last sips of coffee.  After a few minutes, we flagged down our waitress.  She hurried over with an apologetic smile, but instead of handing us the check, she delivered a surprise: another patron — already gone by then — had paid our bill in full.

For a moment, we were silent— stunned, in fact.  Then we laughed, not out of amusement but out of the sheer delight that comes when kindness breaks into an ordinary morning.  There was no explanation, no name, no chance to say thank you.  Just a quiet act of generosity left behind like a blessing.

Without hesitation, we asked our waitress for another table’s bill, and we silently paid it.  It felt like the natural response, almost as if the kindness had momentum of its own.  I like to imagine that it continued moving through the diner that day — one table of patrons blessing another, and another, until the whole place was strewn with grace.

Experiences like this renew my faith in people.  They remind me that kindness is not extinct, though it might be rare these days – it just isn’t always readily visible.  It simply tends to work quietly, without fanfare, often unnoticed unless you happen to be the one receiving it.  And yet, these small acts have a way of softening the heart.  Moments like this remind me that God does work through the hands of strangers.  It reminds me that there are good people out in the world, especially on the days when discouragement creeps in.

There have been times when I’ve given gifts or extended gestures only to receive silence in return.  I admit, there are times when I grow discouraged.  I’ve given gifts that were never acknowledged, and extended gestures that were met with silence.  No acknowledgment, no thank you.  It’s easy to conclude that some people were never taught gratitude or the joy of giving in those situations.  It can feel disheartening to offer something freely and receive nothing in return — not even a basic nod of recognition.

But then something like the breakfast that morning happens, and my perspective shifts.  I remember that for every person who forgets to express appreciation, there is someone else who goes out of their way to brighten a someone’s morning and day.  For every moment of grave disappointment, there is a moment of kindness and decency waiting quietly around the corner.

Kindness doesn’t need applause.  It doesn’t require a spotlight or a stage.  It thrives in the unnoticed spaces of everyday life — in a paid bill, a held door, a handwritten letter, a phone call, a warm smile, a greeting card, a small sacrifice made without expectation.  These gestures may seem insignificant, but they carry a peaceful power. They remind us that we belong to one another, that goodness is still possible, and that the world is held together not by grand gestures but by countless small ones.

And perhaps that is the most hopeful truth of all: kindness usually is contagious.  One generous act inspires another, and another, until a single moment of goodness becomes a chain of kindliness stretching farther than we will ever see.

We left the diner that morning with more than our breakfast paid by someone else and us paying for someone else’s.  I left with renewed belief in hope.  For every moment of ingratitude I’ve encountered, there are countless unseen acts of goodness happening all around us.  God is still at work in the world, often through the simplest gestures.

And perhaps that is the heart of it: kindness is a small echo of Divine Love.  When we give it freely, we become instruments of grace.  When we receive it humbly, we are reminded that kindness often arrives in unexpected ways— sometimes in the form of a stranger who quietly pays your bill and slips out the door before you even know his name.

 

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