When our server left to go get our beverages Annie asked, “Daddy, what’s her name?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

When she came back delivering our iced tea and lemonade Annie did just that.

“What’s your name?”

“Joanna. What’s your name?”

“Annie.” Annie stuck a straw in her mouth and Joanna went back to the kitchen to bring our food.

When she returned to our table Annie looked at her and said, “Joanna. That’s a pretty name.”

For a brief second Joanna looked disoriented. As though the unexpected compliment was an item she wasn’t used to finding on her daily menu. She smiled. A real smile. Not a Sweet N Low substitute smile, but a 100% real sugar smile that takes over your face when someone has genuinely made your day.

“Thank you, Annie.”

“You’re welcome.”

Joanna went back to the counter with a tiny tear in her eye and a spring in her step. Annie went back to her chicken strips and fries. I sat staring, blessed by a lesson in the power of a kind word as taught by my 6-year old daughter.

A truth about relationships is that when we meet people we either leave them a little bit better or a little bit worse, but we never leave them the same. There is no neutral. People are either a little bit better or a little bit worse for having spent any amount of time with us.

When we live by this truth, it changes the way we view the so called “random encounters” in our day. We have opportunity to significantly bless the lives of others in the briefest of interactions. She may be the person behind the counter of the convenience store who takes your money as you say “$20 on Pump #2″. But what would happen if you linger just a few seconds to ask how she is really doing and really listen? That simple act alone sets you apart from every other person she will ring up that day.

In the past few weeks I’ve tried to be mindful of Annie’s lesson in kindness and take time to do more than the blow and go greetings that are my habit. I’ve tried to stop and ask questions. How are you? How are your kids? What’s happening in your life? How’s work? Once people realize you really care, their life, full to the brim, comes spilling out.

“My daughter keeps having ear infections.”

“My Grandma died.”

“They moved me to a different department at work and I hate it.”

“I’m going through a divorce and I’m at the end of my rope. I can’t do this anymore.”

“My kids are driving me crazy!”

“The doctor says it’s cancer. He thinks he got it all but I’m waiting for the biopsy. Am I scared? You have no idea.”

“There’s nothing for me here anymore. I’m so lonely. I don’t know what to do.” 

Life is hard. For all of us. When we communicate kindness we’re saying, “You’re not alone.” When we communicate kindness we are following God’s example. God is infinitely kind to us. What is mercy and grace but the ultimate kindness? Sparing us the punishment we deserve and in it’s place showering us with favor we don’t deserve?

Kindness is a catalyst. It encourages us to risk being more of who we really are. We relax a bit. We open up a little more. We’re more comfortable and less threatened. Timely words that touch our heart leave us better than before. Because kindness shown to us respects our inherent value as people created in the image of God.

Take time to be kind. Sincere compliments. A listening heart. A helpful hand. We know how good it feels to be on the receiving end of such blessings. Even better to be a giver of kindness.

Go make someone’s day.

“Do you not know it is God’s kindness that leads you to repentance?” – Romans 2:4

“Kind looks, kind words, kind acts, and warm handshakes – these are secondary means of grace when men are in trouble and are fighting their unseen battles.” – John Hall

The ease with which one can conduct their business tends to make one less disciplined in their schedule. There’s really nothing here you can do at 10 o’clock in the morning that you can’t do at 10 o’clock at night. We even have a do it yourself all-night Post Office. There’s no line at midnight. And if the box you’re mailing is too big to fit in the bin, FedEx-Kinko’s is right up the road, open 24/7.

The common denominator of our increasing conveniences is the absence of human interaction. Technology has made it possible to take care of business without having to talk to anyone. In my little world I can utilize the walk up machine and be my own postmaster. I can scan and check out my own groceries, do my banking at the ATM, and pump my own gas. And we haven’t even mentioned online bill pay and shopping via the Internet. We “talk” with machines and computers every day. A person could go a long time without talking to another human being if they had to. Or wanted to.

That thought is unsettling to me.

When we’re able to do most everything on our own, we stop needing one another. If I can be self-sufficient, why bother getting to know my neighbors? Instead of seeing people in stores as human beings created in the image of God with all the hopes and fears and frustrations that we have, they become a blurry moving mosaic that occasionally bumps our cart as we push through the frozen food aisle to pay and leave. It’s appropriate. Because we really have “checked out”. We’ve stopped hearing the people around us.

I was thinking about this the other day as I walked into Fry’s Food and Drug. Most every grocery store here has a bank inside. The one I frequent is no exception. I’m the next person in line to speak with a teller. It was the start of what I overheard in ten minutes at the store.

The woman at the counter is stuffing a receipt into her checkbook as the Wells Fargo rep asks, “Do you have family coming home for Christmas?”

“I wish I had family coming home. My son’s dead. This will be my second Christmas without him.” The teller looked awkward and surprised. “I’m…sorry. I hope your holiday is… as good as it can be.” Sometimes a kind wish for a sad person is the best we can offer.

“Hey! Excuse me, lady! Wait up!” A rumpled, needs a shave and a haircut 50-something man with eyeglasses sliding off the end of his nose is nearly out of breath. He’s chasing down a harried looking lady in blue sweat pants and faded t-shirt. She turns, eyebrows raised in suspicion.

“Hey! Wait up. You dropped this. Back there at the SRP counter. It was on the floor. I grabbed it for you.” He held out a fistful of crumpled cash. She looked confused. And preoccupied. As though whatever was happening in her day was so suffocating that even the act of a Good Samaritan returning lost money didn’t phase her. She mumbled a “thanks” and took the money back without bothering to count or examine it.

Back by the orange juice section a young mom was weighing her options while her three year old sat in the cart, head bobbing to “Jingle Bell Rock”. Mom noticed and said, “Are you dancing? You’re a good dancer.” She reached for the moving target and tried to pat her daughter on the noggin. I smiled and the little one smiled back, head still bobbing, her ponytail bouncing on the off beat.

At the checkout line two cashiers were having a conversation about people they knew with holiday names. “I once worked with a girl whose name was Mary. Guess what her last name was? Christmas. Imagine. What parents would do that to their kid?”

“Mary Christmas? At the last store I worked at there was a lady in the bakery named Candy. Her last name was Kane. She got teased a lot this time of year.”

On the way out of the store I walked by another conversation. A woman on a cell phone was giving what for to some person on the other end. At least that’s what it seemed like to me. But I can’t be sure. I don’t speak Japanese.

When we take time to listen, we hear more than words. We hear life. We hear people’s fears. We hear their joys. Their frustrations. We hear their pain. Their hopes and expectations. We hear the emotions that are common to all who live on earth. And that’s the key. As much as we think we can do life on our own, we’re all in this together. God created us to live in community. The snippets of conversation I overheard in ten minutes at the grocery store reminded me that I’m not the only person in the world. You’d think that fact would be obvious. But then you don’t know how completely self-absorbed I can be. Listening, among its other benefits, reminds us that life isn’t all about us.

Somewhere within five minutes of my house on Christmas day there will be a lady grieving and a little girl dancing. I know that because I listened. I said a prayer for both. It seemed like something I’d want someone to do for me.

Next time you go to the grocery store, listen. And say a prayer.

Because we’re all in this together.

Sound advice for drivers approaching railroad tracks.

It’s also good advice for parents.

At 11:30 this night I stopped, looked and listened in the doorway of my babies’ nursery. Opening the door slowly, I peeked in. Maybe it was fatigue from a long day at work or maybe it was a reflective moment. But I stopped there, leaning against the door frame, not moving, the handle still in my hand. It’s only been 20 months but I honestly can’t remember how the room looked before it became a nursery. It’s Annie and Emma’s room now.

The room is peacefully serene. A nightlight tosses a soft yellow circle on the wall while a small globe lamp on the wood dresser provides backlight to the Brambly Hedge mural painted there. I’m biased but I think it’s the most beautiful painting any baby room has ever had. Annie and Emma fall asleep each night watching Shell, Pebble, Primrose and Wilfred, the furry field mice characters, happily playing in their own cozy nursery.

A giant size copy of “Guess How Much I Love You?”, a gift from dear friends to mark the day of the twins’ adoption, sits on top the bookshelf. Above it, a sheer canopy drapes from the ceiling, looping over antique porcelain doorknobs and old metal face plates mounted on the wall on either side of the linen curtains. Slivers of moonlight sift through the arch window while the leaves of the honeysuckle shadow dance outside.

Stuffed animals, species wild and domestic, have escaped the toy box. An unlucky brown squirrel who usually inhabits the crib rests this night face down on the floor, evicted by Emma. Books, including some Golden Books from my childhood, are loosely stacked in the corner.

Emma sleeps with her head resting on a blanket, hand crocheted by her Great Grandma Thompson. An embroidered fleece made by her friend Pat is wrapped around her arm. Annie has kicked her blankets aside. She has her fuzzy lamb in a sleeper hold. Laying there, stretched out on her bed, she seems so long. When I stop this night to look, I see baby girls who aren’t babies anymore. The feet of their pajamas that once flopped behind them as they crawled on the floor are now filled out to the toes.

The first time I looked at Annie and Emma, they were in separate incubators in a neo-natal intensive care unit. I’d never seen babies so tiny. Annie’s finger was no wider than my ring. How is it possible that a big guy like me could be wrapped around a little finger so small?

There were sounds that night. Beeps and chirps of heart monitors and oxygen sensors, the clicks of pens as busy nurses noted their vital statistics on charts and clipboards. The hum of fluorescent lights and high-tech equipment. The tiny squeaks of preemies as they were handled and fed.

The sounds were both comforting and unnerving. Beeps and chirps assure you everything is ok. Beeps and chirps would also alert you to a problem. The more time I spent in ICU, the less I noticed the sounds. I remember thinking that could be dangerous. To no longer hear sounds that contain a message.

The sounds I hear now each day are different than the sounds of the NICU. My daughters’ tiny squeaks have developed into shrieks and laughs and loud “Da Da!”s. The sounds contain a message.

Stop. If you don’t, you’ll be blind sided by a fast approaching future.

Look. You need to see what’s coming down the track.

Listen. Because the sounds you hear contain an important message.

The train is moving. It rolls from infant to toddler to child to teenager to adult without a stop.

Stop. Look. Listen.

When the train has passed, you’ll be glad you did.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.” – Psalm 39:4

I’ve always thought it must be interesting for grocery store cashiers to observe what customers buy. Considering the thousands of items on the shelves, there are a near infinite number of possible purchase combinations. They must see some strange ones. Some time ago I stood in line behind a young husband buying two items: an EPT Home Pregnancy Test and a six-pack of beer. I guess however the test turned out, he was prepared.

There were three items on my strange purchase combination list this night: Nyquil, Pampers (size 3), and a gallon of milk. It was late and I was tired. Thankfully, the items were within three aisles of one another. I headed first to the cold remedy section.

Somewhere behind the law of the universe that states “the slowest moving check-out line is always the one you’re in” is the law stating “stock boys always park their pallets directly in front of the item you’re looking for.” “Jimmy” was dutifully unpacking product while I bobbed and weaved around him, looking for the magic green elixir that would send me and my stuffy head drifting into the arms of Morpheus.

“Find everything you need?” It’s closing time but Jimmy’s customer service voice isn’t tired.

“Yeah, thanks. Got it right here.” I hooked my arm around some boxes and grabbed a bottle of the generic equivalent. Sinus relief at half the price.

“Long day, huh, Jimmy? You clock out at midnight?”

“Yes, sir. Then I go home and study. I’m getting all my requirements out of the way at the community college before transferring to ASU. I want to be an eye doctor.”

“You taking a full load of classes and working full-time?”

“Yep.”

“Been there and done that. It’s not easy.” I had what I needed in this aisle. I could leave now. But I didn’t. Don’t know why. Just decided to talk with Jimmy for a minute longer.

“Jimmy, I went to grad school full-time and worked full-time. It’s not easy, but you can do it. It’s a lot of late nights and a lot of tired days, but you can do it.”

Jimmy stopped stocking, stood up and stretched his shoulders, “Most of my friends are out partying right now. They don’t understand why I’m working this job and going to school.”

“They don’t need to understand. As long as you understand, that’s all that counts. Don’t look at the whole thing at once or you’ll freak. Take it a semester at a time and keep going. One day you’ll say, “Hey, I’m half done.” And then one day, you will be done.”

I didn’t know thing one about Jimmy’s situation. But I remembered all my nights of sitting in class for 4 hours after working all day. It didn’t make me an expert, but it qualified me to offer encouragement.

“Thanks. This job’s ok. But it gets old, being in here until midnight.”

“But you’re working toward your goal. There might be times you wonder why the heck you’re stocking shelves in a grocery store when your goal is to be an eye doctor. Just remember that everything you’re doing now will count for something. No experience is ever wasted with God.”

Did I just say “God” to a total stranger? I quickly looked at Jimmy. He didn’t flinch at the “G” word. He was standing in front of me listening intently. Maybe he thought my big forehead and receding hairline made me look like an old guy who’d been around awhile. Or maybe he thought I had something worth listening to.

“The work ethic you’re developing here will serve you well when you get to medical school. More hard work, just a different kind. You just keep doing what you need to do and God will honor your efforts.” I said the “G” word again. Jimmy still didn’t flinch. “God is always faithful to meet your needs. So you hang in there. Keep working hard. You’re gonna do great.”

Jimmy said, “Thanks. I appreciate hearing that.” With that I sidestepped the pallet and headed off in search of some size 3 Pampers.

While sorting through the myriad of super absorbency diaper options, I pondered what it is that determines whether talking with someone about God is easy or difficult. I suspect the reason I was able to encourage Jimmy by reminding him of God’s faithfulness is because we were engaged in a conversation and not a lecture. Regardless of topic, no one enjoys being talked at. Most everyone appreciates being talked with.

As one who grew up in the church, I’ve seen just about every method Christians use to talk with others about God. Some are gentle, considerate and respectful in their approach. Others are not. In shopping malls, airports, and on street corners well-meaning individuals have pressed tracts into my hand; pamphlets outlining why God is relevant to my life and to my eternal future. With due respect to their sincerity and the validity of the message, many of them were void of tact and sensitivity. Some were simply frightening to me, waving their tracts like weapons as they invaded my personal space with a crazed look on their face. Let’s face it, there’s nothing winsome about being a psycho for God. Excited about God? Certainly. Joyful about sharing what God has done for you? Absolutely. But if children and adults alike are frightened by you, you won’t get close enough for anyone to hear your message, let alone take it seriously.

Jimmy and I had never met before. I don’t know his background and he doesn’t know mine, save what information we exchanged. But that didn’t matter. God is always a relevant topic when we’re talking with others. Whether we know them well or hardly at all, they are living life just like we are. When we talk about God from our personal experience like a normal person who’s living life in the real world, people will listen. They may not agree with us, but they’ll listen.

Even when you’re talking about God in the grocery store at midnight.

“Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity. Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned, as it were, with salt, so that you may know how you should respond to each person.” – Colossians 4:5-6

 When you think Chinese food you probably don’t think Phoenix, Arizona. But every city has its spots of authenticity. The Sing High Chop Suey House happens to be the oldest restaurant in the valley, open since the late 1920′s. The original name for the restaurant was the “Shanghai Chop Suey House”. But something got lost in translation during the conversation between the Chinese owner and the Mexican sign painter. Either there was no money for a new sign or he didn’t want to hurt the man’s feelings, but it’s been “Sing High” ever since. 

Through the opening behind the counter I could see into the busy kitchen. Giant woks sizzled and smoked as the cook deftly stir fried meat and vegetables. The wonderful smell of fresh ginger and green onions blending with hot sesame oil permeated the air. In one motion, a pair of hands passed big plates of spicy barbecued pork through the window and slap dinged the bell before grabbing the next green order ticket hanging from a metal clip above the counter.

The polite Mexican lady who had taken my order on the phone was now returning from a table in the far corner. She was talking to her herself in Spanish before yelling through the window into the kitchen. “Hey! ‘choo didn’t get the order right! They wanted three orders and you only gave them two. This is why the customers they get mad at me. ‘Choo messed up the order!”

The cook turned around. From my vantage point, he had no head. Just shoulders and chest and arms waving metal spatulas. The voice had a Chinese accent. “No! I cook thlee ‘oda Snow Pea. Thlee! You no get ‘oda right!”

“Hey! Whatchu’ talkin’ about? ‘Choo messed up the order!”

“No! I cook thlee ‘oda! Thlee oda Snow Pea! You no get oda right!”

This was a communication challenge. A battle of accents. Off to one side, the petite elderly matriarch was folding take-out boxes. She had had enough. In rapid fire Chinese, she said something to the cook who turned back to his woks without a word. 

The waitress turned, handed my my order and said to me in her south-of-the-border voice, “‘Choo know the problem around here? Is nobody speaks any Englich.” I smiled, then I laughed. Then she laughed, too. It was a wonderful human moment in downtown Phoenix on a Friday afternoon. 

In any language, people are people. We all want to be heard. To be listened to. To be understood. Because when we’re heard and listened to and understood, we feel validated. Like our role on the planet is significant. It doesn’t matter who we are. It doesn’t matter where we work or what we do. Whether we’re a cook behind the counter or a clerk in a corporate cubicle, we need to feel that we’re significant.

Lately I’ve been conscious of how much or little I listen to what people say. I’m not doing as well as I could. Sometimes I’m busy formulating a response instead of focusing on what the other person is saying. Sometimes my head is nodding while my brain is tackling a problem completely unrelated to the conversation. Sometimes I step on the tail of people’s sentences the way someone following too closely steps on the back of your shoe and pulls it off your heel. People must think I’m in a hurry to move past them when I do that. Worse, they probably feel they aren’t important.

There’s a difference between hearing and listening. We hear everything around us. Ambient noise, white noise, words, music. We may ignore any or all, but every sound registers on our ears. We even hear in our sleep. There’s no “off” switch we flip when our head hits the pillow. That’s why I can go from Stage 4 sleep to vertical and ambulatory at 3 AM when one of my babies cries.

Listening, however, implies intent. Listening is purposeful hearing. When we genuinely listen we hear with the purpose of discerning what is being communicated. We listen to better understand. By that definition, how are your listening skills? Mine need some work. So I’m dusting off some tried and true techniques to be a better listener. Like counting to five after the other person finishes speaking before offering a response. To focus on the other person by not being preoccupied and not multi-tasking when someone is speaking to me. To make eye contact. To stop being defensive and just listen to what the other person is saying. To slow down long enough to ask someone, “How’s it going?” and stand there long enough for them to tell me. To recognize that by genuinely listening I’m being teachable. When I really listen, I really learn.

Before this day is out, make it a point to acknowledge the value of another person. Ask them how life is going and stick around long enough to listen. People will likely forget most of what we say, but they’ll always remember that we listened.

“The hearing ear and the seeing eye, the Lord has made both of them.” – Proverbs 20:12

Early in the 2nd quarter, a young family showed up to occupy the empty seats next to us. A Mom and a Dad, and a daughter and a son, who appeared to be about 8 years old. Outward indications were that he had a slight degree of Down’s Syndrome. He watched the basketball players intently but during the timeouts he was standing on his seat, straining to see the Sun’s mascot, “The Gorilla”.

“The Gorilla” is a superb entertainer. Actor, gymnast, and clown all wrapped up in a furry black suit. The job is not without a degree of danger. Last year the Gorilla broke his ankle when he landed wrong from a trampoline slam dunk. Even with a walking cast, he still showed up to make people smile.

The Gorilla is everywhere during a game. Sometimes throwing out boxes of pizza to a lucky section of fans. Sometimes firing t-shirts into the crowd with an air cannon. And sometimes just making the rounds with his primate personality.

During a break in the action in the 4th quarter, the Gorilla made his way into the stands. He ran up the stairs in our direction and after a couple monkey hops over handrails it was clear that he was headed straight for us. The little boy was beside himself. The Gorilla was now only a couple rows away. He high-fived a grown-up or two, then bounded over the rail in front of us. The little boy could not believe his good fortune. He just looked up, wide-eyed, mouth open. The Gorilla rubbed him on the head, did a little dance and headed back toward the court.

About five rows down, the Gorilla made an abrupt about-face and came back. He did a two-hand vault over the handrail and stuck the landing right in front of the little boy, who was now dancing like a runaway fire hose. The two of them exchanged hand slaps and a friendly push and shove before the Gorilla reached into the pockets of his Suns warm-up jersey and handed the boy some souvenirs. He took half a step back and it was all the opening the little guy needed. He laid a giant hug on Gorilla, a hug that was returned with enthusiasm. One more high-five and he was gone, bouncing and jumping back to court side.

I did a quick scan of the row behind me and discovered I wasn’t the only one with a tear in my eye. The boy announced to everyone, “I know him. He comes to my hospital.” The way he put a first-person pronoun in front of “hospital” told me that hospital was a regular part of his routine.

We came to America West Arena to watch a professional basketball game. What I got was a graduate level lesson in communication. The Gorilla never speaks. Yet he is a highly skilled communicator. A master of body language. The tilt of the head, the motion of the hands, the shrug of his shoulders, the bounce in his step. How would you communicate to 15,000 people if you couldn’t speak?

Often we struggle to find the right words to express our thoughts, our feelings, our emotions. Choice words, well-spoken are a treasure, both to speak and to hear. But because we’re fallible human beings, we sometimes don’t choose our words carefully. We blurt out or spit out words we wish we could retract. And what do we use to repair words ill spoken? More words. Using more words to fix words ill spoken is not unlike changing the answer on a test question to which you don’t know the answer. You cut your chances in half again of being right. It doesn’t take long before we’re drowning in our own verbiage.

If communication is 90% non-verbal, how would it be if we tried communicating more by speaking less?

Somewhere in the valley there’s a little boy who considers The Phoenix Suns Gorilla his friend. In a brief moment, a team mascot made this kid feel welcome, excited, important, special, the center of attention and loved.

All without a word.

“Words from a wise man’s mouth are gracious, but a fool is consumed by his own lips. At the beginning his words are folly; at the end they are wicked madness–and the fool multiplies words.” – Ecclesiastes 10:13-14