The Tale of a Love Lost

My employer is currently ranked 53rd on Fortune Magazine's list of top 500 companies.  As I stare at that simplistic, direct statement, I wonder why I would care.  I care because I love the company for which I work.  I care because I have lived almost 25 at this address.  I care because I have established relationships and made memories - good and bad - within this family.  I care because I have represented and bragged on my employer.  I care because I have learned so much within the walls of this building.  I care most of all, because I feel UPS has forsaken everything Jim Casey and his partners established in 1907.

Obviously, I never knew the man, but years ago Jim Casey's writings were required reading for supervisors.  Entire workshops were laced with his mantras; meetings began with readings from his works or the company's Policy Book - a book not about dress codes or payroll, but a book about fairness and family, service to its customers - internal and external.  A person's writings say a lot about who they are (it is my prayer that my words remain fragrant and laced with the love of Christ).  To me, and I believe to those who went before me, Jim Casey was committed to a legacy of partnership and camaraderie ("We Address Each Other on a First-Name Basis." The UPS Policy Book), of success as a unit ("One measure of your success...will be the degree to which you build up others who work with you. While building up others you will build up yourself." Jim Casey, 1945) and of reputation and service as the catalysts to financial prosperity.  The following statements are Jim Casey's, and recorded in Our Partnership Legacy:

In 1944: "An expanding business is the only way to provide opportunities for our people."

In 1947: "Are we working for money alone?  If so, there is no surer way not to get it." [italics mine]

In 1949: "Good management is not just good organization.  It is an attitude inspired by the will to do right.  Good management is taking a sincere interest in the welfare of the people you work with.  It is the ability to make people feel that you and they are the company -- not merely employees of it.  Good management is your worthiness to have and hold the confidence of others." 

And with regard to service: "Anybody can deliver packages...The one thing we can have to offer that others will not always have is quality." (1946)

Simply from these statements alone - statements I was once encouraged to learn and adopt - I have considered United Parcel Service's founder, Jim Casey to be a wise, values-oriented man of noteworthy character.  A true leader who carried his beloved company - his family - through birth, two World Wars, a Great Depression, foreign wars, and the advent of the Technological Age, leaving behind a humanitarian ideology that earned him a well-deserved place in the US Department of Labor Hall of Fame, and the hearts of those whose lives he touched. A fair assumption, don't you think?

I cannot tell you the last time I have attended a training or teambuilding workshop.  We no longer meet one-on-one with our employees to discuss their job performance or our performance as supervisors or employers.  Gone are the days of selections read from the Policy Book, or Founders' Day celebrations, or recognition dinners, or anniversary gifts, or safety awards, or limo rides from the building upon retirement.  I have seen jobs eliminated while upper, upper management folks receive obscene raises for their "exemplary work."  I have heard every excuse in the book as to why we no longer recognize employees - from strikes, to 9/11, to recession, to expansion, to "times they are a-changin'."  I have stared at polished faces staring at me from atop the ladder of success - faces that have never been dirtied by the black dust that attaches itself to everything within a five mile radius of a UPS hub, faces that have never looked over their shoulder to see if anyone was watching as they tripped over a "hub snake", faces that have never beamed with accomplishment as they "turned" an aircraft in record time, faces that have stared into textbooks and smiled at interviews and stared back in the reflection of their brand new luxury automobile, but have never fallen in love with the United Parcel Service that I have known.  

Maybe my statements are those of a bitter, washed up Willy Loman of a person, but I don't think so.  Others have shared these same sentiments and ideas.  I hope that others still will heed our call to return to a company of which Jim Casey would once again be proud.

The Smell of Fear

A November 2012 study published in Psychological Science, suggests that not only can humans smell fear, but it is contagious.  Strangely enough - I can't imagine who comes up with these tests - perspiration from two groups of men was collected as they watched fearful images or disgusting images.  When two groups of women were shown images and exposed to the scent of the collected perspiration, they either scrunched up their noses in disgust, or widened their eyes in fear, despite the images they viewed having no correspondence to either emotion.  OK, let me just say, the septicity or communicability of disgust is very inconclusive here, as I believe the entire experiment to be highly disgusting!  But the idea that fear is not only perceptible but contagious, makes me think (and that, alone can incite fear).

I have never been exactly comfortable in my own skin.  Truthfully, I have known few people who are completely "secure."  When it boils right down to it, most of us harbor some deep insecurity with physical appearance, social status, financial position, sense of lifetime accomplishment or even spiritual certainty.  I am terribly insecure about operating within the realms of "girl world."  I don't speak the language; I don't enjoy many of the activities; I blanch when I imagine their assessment of me, and worst of all - I don't carry a purse. 
Years ago, when I had to compete foolishly believed I had to compete with my ex's new girlfriend, and my husband's ex-wife, my eating disorder began to rear its ugly head.  It seems to smell my fear - know exactly when to emerge from the pit in an effort to obtain my company right down there with it.  My ex had no longer wanted me because I didn't get dressed up nicely, because I had gained weight, because I "couldn't even wear a little lipstick!" Which, BTW, I loathe -- greasy, waxy stuff that gets on your teeth and leaves that hideous ring around the edges of your lips as it wears, unless of course, you reapply which I obviously don't, because I don't carry a purse!  I had failed at being a girl.

My husband's ex was thin, and dating, and grew up with sisters.  I am not, and wasn't, and didn't.  I could weigh 13 pounds, and I would still have no waist, no boobs, and flat butt.  I am built like a linebacker; in a crowd, my shoulders are registered weapons and my legs make some varieties of indigenous trees look like saplings.  How would I ever measure up?
So I gorged, and I starved, and I purged.  A couple of tablespoons of relish for dinner, a 1/2 gallon of Moose Tracks for lunch the following day... 

THEN, I got myself into - not a size 6, not a "group" - I got myself into the Word!  And I gotta tell ya, I began to see the world.  I began to see what fear looks like.  I knew what it looked like in me; bulimia and I have been friends since 7th grade - the longest close friendship I've been able to maintain! - but I began to see what it looks like in others, and it was startling!  God revealed to me His perfect peace through the promises of His Word.  Each time that peace washed over me, each time I rested in knowing I wasn't ________ enough for others, I began to see that I was ________ enough for my Father.  He loves me no matter what!  Even sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, eating half a crockpot of meat gravy (that's spaghetti sauce with meat in it, for those who were never married to an Italian) with a fork, He loves me!  And it was through that perfect peace, I was able to see the pandemic of fear that holds others so tightly in its grip.

I've never been out of the states except a trip to Canada when I was about nine, or so, but it seems to me that the "richest, most blessed, strongest nation in the world" - our very own - has fallen gravely ill under the plague of fear.  The media exploits it.  When do you ever remember thunder storms to be cause for a 15 minute segment at the beginning of your local news broadcast? and 24+ hours of news coverage, usurping all other scheduled programming, to cover a story about which they "don't have all the details yet," but will keep talking, and speculating, and alarming you, and impressing upon you the "gravity of the situation, as details come in?"And litigation?  Our courts are filled with some of the most frivolous suits and bills one could imagine.  Just sit an hour or two in your local municipal or family court - it'll shock you!  Adults refusing to give their neighbor, their ex-husband, their local merchant just a little bit of leeway, fearful that if they do, their lives will spiral into ruin, others will catch wind and try to take advantage as well, they will "lose face."  Must win.  Must stay on top.  Mean girls.  Bullying.  Exploiting government assistance.  Retail theft.  Mishandling of funds.  Gambling.  Abuse.  Fear.  Control.

God's peace reminds me that I have the God of the universe fighting for me (Ex. 14:13-14).  He loves me (Rom. 8:37-39) and He will never fail me (Deut. 31:8).  I can trust His Word is true, or I can rob a bank.  I can lean on His mighty arms, or I can tear someone else down to make myself feel better.  I can cling to Him when my employer begins to eliminate jobs, or I can lend credence to the gossip, and doom and gloom circulating around the water cooler.  I can workout until my muscles tear and my bones break, or I can focus on pleasing My God with my thoughts, my speech, and my actions.

My ex and his girlfriend, and Scott and I went to dinner last night.  Because we wanted to.  We shared appetizers, and talked, and laughed.  Just like friends do.  Turns out peace is contagious, too. 

How Am I Blessed?

Working odd hours means I have to DVR "Longmire."  Working odd hours means people assume I'm not doing anything all day.  Working odd hours means I'm crawling under the covers just as the sun is blasting through my bedroom window.

However, working odd hours means I catch folks just as they're drowsily posting their last thoughts on Facebook, or they're being tormented by all those terrible things that go bump in the night.  A friend of mine was having just such a wakeful night last week.  My text alert went off some time around 1 AM.

"You are blessed," I texted.  "What could possibly be keeping you up at night?"

Well, it seems, time is passing and he doesn't quite see his life shaping up to be as he expected.  Now, far be it from me to ever suggest clothes, or cars, or money makes the man, but when it comes to opportunities, this guy's had 'em. 

"How am I blessed?" he asked.

I was stunned.  I mean, this was legit.  This guy honestly did not see what he had going.  He'd never been on food stamps or public assistance.  He'd never been forced to shop at discount stores.  He has multiple vehicles.  He has traveled.  He stays with a friend -- a great person, by the way -- in a beautiful home.  He has a job, a child, a life.  This was not some ingrate with a leaky diaper on Santa's lap.  He didn't get it.

"I know it could be worse," he texted.

I meet so many people who have no idea where their next meal is coming from, or how they will pay their utilities.  Their need is tangible, and the blessing of having their needs met is a box of food they put in their car or strap to the back of a bike.  But what of those whose plate is full, but hearts are empty? whose homes are warm and dry, but hearts are cold and drier still?  This poverty goes unanswered -- even by those who suffer it.  My heart is breaking for this guy.  He is in a world full of people, and still alone.  He is armed, ready, and standing with lights on, doors bolted shut, yet, he is afraid.  His need seems so much greater.

And it is.  Far greater than I.  I cannot throw him a Giant gift card and yell, "Use your coupons for extra savings!".  I cannot point him toward the clothing ministry and tell him to have at it.  His need must be addressed on the battlefield of the supernatural.  His need must be wrestled and pinned to holy ground.  I must take responsibility for the poor of heart just as I do the poor of purse.  I must lay his cause before his Creator when he will not.  I must point him toward Living Water each time he comes to me in thirst.  And I must pray.  With as much prayer as my knees will take, I must pray that one day he can answer the question, "How am I blessed?"

I Probably Shouldn't Have Done This

So here is the issue: not what to write, but what not to write.  You see, for me writing is cathartic.  I have this awkward, impulsive nature that tends to engage before my brain has even gotten out of bed.  When I respond to a difficult situation, I either stammer foolishly -- I have already concocted, on average, three different responses which emerge tangled and garbled into one because my brain has actually failed to choose a single one of them -- or I reply, "Thank you," to the deb who has just complimented me on my manicure -- and not until the door to the ladies room eases shut, do I remember I haven't had one. 

It is pen to paper, or unmanicured fingers to keys that helps me make some sense of it all.  It is writing that helps me process all those feelings of inadequacy that others seem to enjoy taking out on those around them.  Unfortunately, with all the information which bombards me every moment of every day, and all the things that tick me off, or make me happy, or confuse the devil outta me, at the end of the day, that's a lot of writing. 

For instance, at some point this morning the Will Rogers quote, "I never met a man I didn't like," just popped into my head.  Not enough for me to consider it strange and continue making oatmeal cookies; I had to know how and why it suddenly got there.  So, I turned to my favorite investigative vehicle -- Google.  Did you know that Barry Manilow actually recorded a song, "Never Met a Man I Didn't Like?"  The thing that was truly shocking to me, was that it was included in his 1991 album "Showstoppers."  I'm remembering back to 1991, and can't recall the market for that distinctive Manilow sound, as being very vibrant.  As if that weren't enough, the lyrics include the word "highfalutin," which in its definition includes the word "bombastic."  I do recall "bombastic" as one of my vocabulary words in about 7th grade or so, but I honestly do not recall ever having used it since.

It is not until I realized I have watched almost the entire Youtube video (Manilow performs his song on a show hosted by Joan Rivers -- most likely sometime before her ninth or tenth facelift.  She wears a gold jacket, he is wearing an ultra-feminine red and black color-block jacket over a black mock turtleneck.  Aaah, the '90s.  No diggity, no doubt.) that I realize the chicken I have grilling on my 1990s George Foreman grill is now burning on my 1990s George Foreman grill.  As I frantically pry tonight's dinner from George's grip, I have already begun considering the possibility of having multiple children named Judi.

I've never really liked my name, and while the "i" makes it more unique than others with a "y," I have, thanks to my mother, inherited a certain level of annoyance with people who have known me for years and continue to spell it with a "y."  So, would I continue to spell my name with an "i," and my progeny's with a "y," simply to differentiate?  Folks would probably insist on spelling theirs with an "i."  Not really something to which I should be devoting a whole lot of time and concern. 

And then I begin thinking of how intolerant I can be.  I would think Will Rogers would be ashamed.  I mean, if he knew me.  Which he didn't.  But, at least, I know he would have liked me.