Days when you've been grumpy and tired and snapping at everyone around you? Days when most of what comes out of your mouth you know you'll regret later? Days when you perfectly embody everything wrong with 1 Corinthians 13: 1-3 because you "have not love"?
Recently I had an entire weekend filled with those days.
I was tired, I was grumpy, and I wanted nothing to do with people (teenage boys, in particular). My answers were abrupt, my words were harsh, and my silences were pointed. But the worst part about it was that I thought I was hiding it; I was patting myself on the back for being able to mask my lousy attitude.
Until Saturday night came and I watched a harsh answer completely crumble all of the work I had put into building a relationship with one of my boys.
And then again on Sunday, when another student hesitantly approached me to asked what he had done to make me mad.
And even though apologies were made and forgiveness extended, I can't help but wonder what kind of lasting damage I've made in my relationships with the other 18 boys.
I'd like to blame my grouchiness on stress or lack of sleep or even the fact that it's November, but the truth is that the blame lies solely with me. The root cause of my discontentment was selfishness. I was annoyed when the boys complained, when they didn't say 'thank you', when they expected extra privileges, when they ignored my hard work. I was tired of being ignored and presumed upon and taken advantage of. I wanted to shout, "Look how hard I'm working! Look at all the things I've done for you!"
The funny (or sad) part of this whole thing is that my small group is currently reading a book that talks about becoming a person who loves well and the previous week's chapter was all about Christ's selfless love for us. The author reminded us of the example of Christ humbly washing his disciples feet, and she encouraged us to carry around a "towel"--to constantly be prepared to humbly serve others. But instead of filling a basin with soap and water or wrapping a towel around my waist, I had my feet propped up on the table, looking for someone to come wash my feet.
During our small group discussion of the Last Supper, one of my fellow RAs reminded us that as people who profess the name of Christ, we become dead men-- people who have died to their selfishness--and "dead men have no rights." I had no right to expect a "thank you" for the lunch I prepared or a hug for driving out of my way to drop someone off at a birthday party or a "Best RA Ever" sticker for making 2 trips into town just so someone could spend an extra hour with their friends. I had no right to expect that nap that I never got on Sunday afternoon. I had no right to expect to be recognized and appreciated.
Never one to learn my lesson the first time, the Lord continued to convict my selfish heart on Sunday night with a little bit of hot chocolate. The boys were all off hiking through the woods when I offered to selflessly make hot chocolate (from scratch, no less!) to warm them when they returned. Full of self-righteous pride for how humbly I was serving these boys, I turned on the stove only to have them return from their adventure just as I was melting the chocolate. One after the other, 20 boys came into the kitchen to ask if the hot cocoa was finished and by about the third boy I was ready to throw the chocolate on the floor and say "forget it." Didn't they know that I was serving them? Didn't they know that I was a college-educated adult who had given up my friends and family to move halfway across the world to minister to them?
As I stood there fuming and throwing a temper tantrum, I was reminded of I Corinthians 13: 3 (NIV) "If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but have not love, I gain nothing." So without love, this huge sacrifice of my time and my energy to serve these boys was little more than a handful of cocoa powder and some hot milk.
I wish I could say that my attitude immediately improved and I didn't sigh meaningfully when the next boy asked if the cocoa was finished or start grumbling when I was left with the huge pot of leftover chocolate to clean, but I can't. I still have quite a long ways to go before I begin washing feet.
So as much as I would like to tie this post up into a nice little "look at what I learned" ending, if nothing else I hope it encouraged you to learn from my failings, to live a life of love, to carry around a towel, so that your hot chocolate is more than lukewarm milk. (How's that for some mixed metaphors?)
The funny (or sad) part of this whole thing is that my small group is currently reading a book that talks about becoming a person who loves well and the previous week's chapter was all about Christ's selfless love for us. The author reminded us of the example of Christ humbly washing his disciples feet, and she encouraged us to carry around a "towel"--to constantly be prepared to humbly serve others. But instead of filling a basin with soap and water or wrapping a towel around my waist, I had my feet propped up on the table, looking for someone to come wash my feet.
During our small group discussion of the Last Supper, one of my fellow RAs reminded us that as people who profess the name of Christ, we become dead men-- people who have died to their selfishness--and "dead men have no rights." I had no right to expect a "thank you" for the lunch I prepared or a hug for driving out of my way to drop someone off at a birthday party or a "Best RA Ever" sticker for making 2 trips into town just so someone could spend an extra hour with their friends. I had no right to expect that nap that I never got on Sunday afternoon. I had no right to expect to be recognized and appreciated.
Never one to learn my lesson the first time, the Lord continued to convict my selfish heart on Sunday night with a little bit of hot chocolate. The boys were all off hiking through the woods when I offered to selflessly make hot chocolate (from scratch, no less!) to warm them when they returned. Full of self-righteous pride for how humbly I was serving these boys, I turned on the stove only to have them return from their adventure just as I was melting the chocolate. One after the other, 20 boys came into the kitchen to ask if the hot cocoa was finished and by about the third boy I was ready to throw the chocolate on the floor and say "forget it." Didn't they know that I was serving them? Didn't they know that I was a college-educated adult who had given up my friends and family to move halfway across the world to minister to them?
As I stood there fuming and throwing a temper tantrum, I was reminded of I Corinthians 13: 3 (NIV) "If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but have not love, I gain nothing." So without love, this huge sacrifice of my time and my energy to serve these boys was little more than a handful of cocoa powder and some hot milk.
I wish I could say that my attitude immediately improved and I didn't sigh meaningfully when the next boy asked if the cocoa was finished or start grumbling when I was left with the huge pot of leftover chocolate to clean, but I can't. I still have quite a long ways to go before I begin washing feet.
So as much as I would like to tie this post up into a nice little "look at what I learned" ending, if nothing else I hope it encouraged you to learn from my failings, to live a life of love, to carry around a towel, so that your hot chocolate is more than lukewarm milk. (How's that for some mixed metaphors?)
Aw, I love this, Ms. Cliff. <3
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