Running from the Fish

My stint manning the meat counter at the Fresh Market lasted half a day. I needed a job; they needed someone to wrap up fish. Seemed like a good match.

It wasn’t.

In way of an interview, the manager glanced at my résumé and then scowled at me. I could weigh meat and smile. That got me in the apron and behind the salmon.

My training consisted of a fellow worker—a kid a few years younger than me at the time—pointing out the scales and the paper and telling me when breaks were. Needless to say, I floundered with the flounder, and my meat wrapping looked horrible.

By lunch, I’d completely lost my appetite thanks to the ground chuck, snarling manager, and disgusted looks from customers. I didn’t let the door hit me on the way out.

Sometimes, I live my faith like that as well—minus the fish smell, of course. I get pumped on Sunday and even during the week by diving into the action-movie known as Mark’s gospel.

But when the meat hits the scales, I cower down and run. Not literally. I just don’t speak when someone talks about a general faith in something; I don’t help everyone who really needs help; I don’t show love because I’m too caught up in my own not-enough-sleep-Monday blah.

I just don’t live what I believe all the time. It’s hard, so I let it go.

Building up to that Paul faith—that preaching-while-rocks-are-flying faith—takes time and a whole lot of God’s help. I haven’t quite gotten there yet, but every so often, I shock myself with a love for people that goes so deep I can’t help but speak.

Someday, I’ll be there all the time. I pray you will be too.