Courtesy

Pass It On

I recently joined this Sunday School class that my friend's mother leads. She impressed upon me that I really to attend regularly because I lower the average age of the class by at least three decades. I find the perspective of these people, who are much older than me, interesting and intriguing.

This week we were discussing a Faithlinks article on "Courtesy". The main idea is that common courtesy is not as common as it used to be. Examples were given that focused on traffic issues (road rage, etc) and cell phone usage, as well as manners and customs. We explored the issue through Biblical references to examples of courtesy in the time of Jesus, what he had to say about it, and how our faith should dictate our actions in terms of common courtesy. As an example of the conclusions we reached, we agreed that when someone makes a bad decision on the road, instead of trying to flip them the bird or give them a dirty look, we should just let it go and realize that God is the one who will do the judging.


As with any group of people in a discussion, we heard a range of ideas, amusing anecdotes, intriguing opinions, and startling statements. I was still thinking about it that afternoon when we were on our way to a Superbowl party, and I wanted to discuss it.

"Today at Sunday School," I started, but my husband interrupted me to ask me if I had the map with me. I told him I didn't need it, I knew where I was going, and that I had begun a story I wanted to tell him. "I know, I know, " he says, "but I just wanted to ask that real quick before we got too far."

"So I've been going to this Sunday School class, you know," I began again. "Today we were talking about courtesy."

"Hold on," he says, "just as a caveat to what I was saying," and begins talking about goals he has just written down on how to improve himself this year. "That's great," I said, "But I was trying to tell you something I learned today. Can we talk about this after I am finished?"

"I thought we were having a conversation!" he says, irritated, then stops real quick to give a woman at a stop sign a dirty look. "Are ya gonna go or not, woman!" he says angrily.

"Yeah," I tried again, "so in Sunday School we were actually talking about road rage, and how to deal with people who are making you mad when you are driving,"
"Uh-huh," he says, as he looks over my shoulder to the person driving next to him in an attempt to pass him.
"Yeah, and we were trying to find a way to approach road rage issues through our faith, like how as a Christian should we deal with people who make us angry when we are on the road."
"Oh, Christians sure like to say things like that," he says, "How about as a person, as a human being on this earth? What makes the Christians think they are special anyway?" he says, as he looks over his left hand shoulder and begins accelerating to try to beat the person next to him to the left hand turn lane.

"Well, it was really interesting to hear these people talk about it, because they are older than me and their perspective is different," I said. "I was sitting between a woman in her nineties and a woman in her sixties," I said, about to make a point about the things they were saying.

"Ah, my ADD is kicking in," my husband says, as he tries to get in front of the person next to us approaching the entrance ramp for the freeway. This is his cue that he doesn't want to listen to me anymore.
So now I am pouting, and he is irritated, and we go back and forth on the long drive to our party, talking, not talking, try to resolve it, forgot it about it, give up, back and forth.
We get to the party and it happens again. I start talking and he cuts me off to ask me random questions.

"So today I was thinking about this book..."

"Hold on. What day does school end this year?"

"I was talking! You've cut me off five times tonight already!"

"By my count, it is seven."

"Can you stop? I really want to have a conversation."

"This is a conversation! You say something, I say something, we're talking!"

"Can you pull your chair over to me and sit down with me? I really want to talk."

"No, because I gotta use the restroom, get another beer. Hold on."

He never comes back. This is an outdoor party with all kinds of entertainment for the children, and I am chasing my toddler all over, making sure he doesn't get hurt or put things in his mouth. After a few hours of this and eating random football snacks, I suddenly don't feel good. I feel dizzy and disoriented. I find myself checking out the ground, thinking, "that looks like a good place to lie down", and I realize if I don't lie down, I am going to fall down.

I find my husband and tell him, "I don't feel good. I have to lay down." The air seems to be moving in and out and people's shapes are contorted, voices too loud.

"You mean to tell me that I am going to miss my game because I have to watch the kids?" he says angrily.

"I can't do it anymore, I have to lay down," ugh, I am about to faint, "remember last week when I canceled my plans with my friend because you didn't feel good?" why are we even having this conversation man what the heck is wrong with me gotta lay down cold clammy forehead pulsating with glistening sweat

"Fine! Go lay down!" he says angrily. I crawl off to lay down in the car, wedging my Bible over the consol so it would stop jutting into my ribs, laying my head on my jacket.A couple minutes later, my husband opens the door."Gotcha a shirt," he says, tossing a t-shirt at me and closing the door again. I stick the t-shirt under my head.

A couple minutes later, the door opens again. It is the host of the party. He says "come on now, come on inside, you don't need to be laying in your car, I have a nice big bed for you to lay in, come get some rest. Are you okay?"The concern in his voice just knocks me away. It feels so merciful, like someone truly cares about me, and tears come to my eyes because it has been so long since I have felt cared for, been shown compassion.

He takes my hand and leads me to the house, where some little girls come up to tell us the baby is crying. My baby is in the bedroom, in the playpen in this strange house, and I think it is most likely because my husband didn't want to watch him. I run to him and pick him up, and for a moment I forget my own concerns as I hold my baby and stroke him, whispering "it's okay, momma's here" in his ear.
Then I tried to lay down in the bed with the baby, who was wiggling and fussing. The wide screen TV on the wall was on, broadcasting Scooby Doo. While we were trying to rest, the commercial posted above came on, brought to you by the Foundation for a Better Life.
Who ever heard of a commercial for courtesy?
Today, of all days.
Is that ironic, or just coincidental?