Laziness and Whining Knows No Race, Socio-economic class or anything else. The sloth and desire to avoid work that I struggled with the first week reared its ugly head again. I think I assumed that because these kids were from completely different situations and ways of life than those of the first week that they’d have a refined work ethic and really understand why they were at the houses painting.
Wrong.
It was exactly the same. Granted, it was hot enough to crush even the strongest of wills and spirits, but seriously. It was hot. These words of my mother rang true yet again in the midst of idle paint brushes and scrapers though: “I’m telling you, buddy; they’re just at that age…” Must be. If the planned careers of pharmacists, doctors, lawyers and NBA stars I was told of don’t work out, some of those guys should consider trying their hand in magic. Or maybe I should. All I had to do is say “Hey guys can I get a hand with these ladders” or “Alright guys let’s get back to work…” and they would disappear faster than the Lucille II.
While the lack of work was frustrating, it was more the attitude of a select number of the guys that really led me to the breaking point I experienced on Tuesday night. As we finished the house we had been working on, our homeowner gave us the paint she bought to repaint her carport with. The project took no time at all, but the paint she bought just happened to be oil-based, leaving our buckets and brushes marred by that Luciferian substance. (If you’ve never used oil-based paint, don’t.) The day before, a group of three or so had helped me clean the paint brushes, so, along with the three R.G. and I deemed to have worked the hardest that day, they weren’t required to help when we got back. Everyone else, however, was. So, when we got back to the dorm, a group of R.G., Cheryl, and the three instructed not to help went about cleaning everything. My admonishment of “you can sit at the door all you want, but I’m not unlocking it until everybody helps” fell on deaf ears, as most of the group did, in fact, sit at the door. After an hour, with my arms elbow-deep in mineral spirits, I just decided to throw the buckets that I couldn’t clean away. I tried to let those that had helped just go in while keeping the others out. That worked as well as the zone read with Chris Todd. So finally, with my spirit broken and my mood soured, I just said “screw it” and let everybody in. I was frustrated. And mad. And disappointed.
I don’t, as a 22-year old, feel that I deserve much respect from those that are just 9 years younger than I am. I probably wouldn’t take somebody seriously if I was just 13. The thing I was disappointed in myself about was the lack of influenced I seemed to be able to have on these kids. I certainly worked harder than everybody on the worksite, mostly in the hopes that they would see me covered in sweat and paint and follow suit.
Fail.
I was disappointed that some of the things I had said to some of the guys about respect seemed to go one in ear and out the other. After asking one of the kids to just get water because we needed the Kool-Aid for dinner, he proceeded to argue with me and plead to let him have some, while he mixed himself a nice tall glass. Anything I asked them to do, really, was done so either not at all or begrudgingly with an aside remark about not wanting to do it. Everything asked of them was a struggle. As I walked back to my room, I’ve never really felt so helpless in all my life. I was simply broken.
They say you should never pray for patience. Apparently, you should never pray for grace either. That is, however, the only thing I could get out through my clenched teeth as I walked back to my room. I believe that God’s grace gets you to places you couldn’t get on your own, allows you to do things you weren’t able to do without His help and the like. So, I thought, maybe if I prayed for grace, God would give me the gift of patience and I would be able to look at this group of guys without wanting to unleash a flurry of curse words and ideals that would surely set them straight.
Wrong again. (See a pattern?)
The next morning continued with the suck. I was beginning to get sick with some kind of sinus trouble, along with the events from the previous night, and the day was off to a pretty fantastic start. I’d be lying if I said the thoughts of “Did I mishear God?” or “Was I really called here?” didn’t go through my mind. I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t think about where in Appalachia I could be or what ASP-related thing I could’ve been doing at that moment. It was tough. Nothing seemed to be going right or getting better. Throughout that day, though, I began to see a little light break through.
I met our new homeowners, the Longs, and was fortunate enough to talk to them for a minute. The work got better, probably because half of the group went to Highlands, so there wasn’t as much contagious laziness to infect the group. It was only a half-day, as they had Wednesday night off. There were little victories happening and I began to feel better about everything.
Talking to my friends at ASP, I’ve sometimes caught myself wishing I made a different choice. Maybe it’s the familiarity of being on staff. Maybe it’s the long-term relationships you are able to form with the families you work for, rather than the short-term you experience here. I don’t doubt my call here. I just wonder, I guess. Thursday though, gave me a glimmer of hope. One of the worst acting kids of the group talked to me a little bit about faith and why I believed the way I did. He said he hadn’t “given his life to God” yet because he didn’t want to stop doing some things he was doing now and if he did, God would make him stop. I tried, as best I could, to explain how my belief in God, and belief in God in general, wasn’t a list of rules you had to follow; it wasn’t about eliminating all the fun in your life. Rather it was a change of heart, an inward transformation that changed the way you saw people, the way you treated people. It was about shifting your focus. It was about becoming new.
I don’t really think he listened to me. He most likely was just thinking about how he would never get to “run around all night.” I thought about the “Sinner’s prayer” and all the ways of “evangelism” I’d been taught about growing up. How ineffective would that’ve been in that moment? Yeah, I could’ve led Dreek in the prayer where he confesses his sin and “repents” and all that. Would he have been changed? Maybe. I doubt it though.
Most of these kids need an example. I suppose that’s why I’m here. God gives us a lot of opportunities to make a difference for the kingdom. If that five minute conversation made an impression on a guy that most likely hasn’t had a good example made some kind of difference, showed him his place in the Kingdom, set some kind of positive example or anything else, then I’ve filled my place.
Thy kingdom come…on Earth as it is in Heaven…
I’m going to Latvia this week. Sweet.
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