Name Calling

I have been thinking about my cousin James today.  
Which is funny because we aren't particularly close- James is MUCH older than me.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.  So we didn't really grow up together.  He was my older kinda cool cousin who found pleasure in torturing us at Thanksgiving.
But today I have been thinking of something he shared at his son's funeral.  As he stood at the pulpit braving the incomprehensible task of sharing his feelings at that unimaginable time, he said something that has changed my perspective forever.  You see, he shared his experience as he drove home from the hospital on the horrible day his little man passed away.  He stopped at a service station for a drink.  As he stood in line, the thought hit him, "None of these people have any idea.  I'm standing here in line with these people and they have no clue I just lost my son."  (At least that's how I heard what he shared)
The thought hit me like a ton of bricks.  How many times have I been impatient with someone because I didn't understand their behavior?  How often to I judge someone based on their actions, not knowing what is in their heart?
Are the names we call others kind?   Do they help or hurt?  During his darkest hour, James taught me one of life's biggest lessons.  We should always help, because odds are the person is already hurting.
I thought of James today because of this wonderful story found in Prodigal Magazine and written by Susan Basham:

Pulling my car into the drive-thru line at Starbucks, I wondered why it was a dozen people deep. It wasn’t raining, yet it seemed everyone was driving through today. I was transporting three dogs to the groomer, and there was no way I could leave two wild Shih-tzus and one crazy Bichon alone while I went inside for my daily dose. Millie, the Bichon, sat on my lap licking the window. As I peeled her away from the glass, I saw the woman. She sat across the parking lot, leaving just enough room for a thoroughfare, as she too was waiting in the Starbucks line. I smiled, and gestured to her. It went something like this: “Are you next, or am I?” Really, I was fine either way. She was not. Thinking I was trying to snag her spot of next up, she gunned her Suburban, rolled down the window, and let out a string of expletives that made me blush. Millie barked back a retort. “Go ahead, please,” I said. “I wasn’t sure who was first.” I pulled Millie back onto my lap, so she could see I had been dog-distracted and truly didn’t know who was next. She didn’t buy it. She continued with the name calling without taking a breath. I won’t write them down here, but the main mantra shared initials with the number one social networking site. 
Then something really strange happened. Instead of getting mad or yelling back at her, a sense of empathy invaded me. I looked at her again, and this time I saw someone different, someone who wrenched my heart. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair was pulled back in a natty ponytail. She held her phone in her palm, glancing down at it every few seconds. And she was driving that big ole’ gas hog of a Suburban, my own car of choice when I had three kids at home and a carpool. Dear God. I was looking at myself ten years ago. Same car, same ponytail. Same frustration. We’ve all been there. Dog vomits on the sofa. Both kids have strep throat. The garbage disposal chooses today to break, when you are trying to disintegrate moldy fridge leftovers.  Husband is mad because you forgot to pick up the dry cleaning and he’s going on a business trip. Sound familiar? And by the way, was that him she had been talking to or texting? She gunned forward, just to show me that she could. I left her a wide berth, smiled at her splotchy face. She shot me a sideways scowl, mouthed the mantra again. Pulling up to the loudspeaker behind her, I said “I want to pay for whatever the woman in front of me has ordered. And please tell her I hope she has a better day.” I meant every word. The woman idled in front of me for a good four minutes, talking to the barista who had leaned out the window. She shook her head and handed over a bill. She drove around the side of the building slowly, this time no gunning. Hmmm. “No takers, huh?” I said to the barista as I pulled forward. “Nope. She said she couldn’t believe you wanted to pay for her drink after all the names she called you. She said she couldn’t allow it, and said to tell you she was sorry. She felt really bad.” “Did you tell her I hoped she had a better day?” “Yep. She said thanks— that she already was.” “Good to hear.” I smiled and handed her a dollar to put in the tip jar. As I drove away, I began to cry. Not because I had been called so many terrible names, but because God had answered my very recent prayer—which was that He would allow me to see people as He sees them, not as I see them. That I might be able to see the hurting inside, instead of just the hurtful outside. And maybe a few tears were of gratitude and amazement that He always shows up with an answer when I sincerely ask. 

Joseph B Wirthlin said "Kindness is the essence of greatness and the fundamental characteristic of the noblest men and women I have known. Kindness is a passport that opens doors and fashions friends. It softens hearts and molds relationships that can last lifetimes."
I can't pretend to be as thoughtful and understanding as Susan, but I can try. And I can make sure that the names I call others are the kind I want to be called.