Putting Your Best Foot Forward
On Wednesday, I began a new career.
On Wednesday, I began a new career.
Around one p.m. in the afternoon I met with some chimney contractors on the lawn of the newly constructed home where they were working.
Afterwards, I got in my car and as I was driving to my next appointment I was struck by the most god-awful smell coming from somewhere on my body.
I did a quick self-inventory:
Was it my breath? Nope.
Did I completely lose control of my bowels? Nope.
I quickly looked down and saw that unbeknowance to me, I had stepped in fresh dog poop, ankle deep on my right foot.
I was driving on a two-lane road at this point, so I pulled over into a nearly-empty parking lot to see what I could do about the mess.
I got out of my car and wiped my shoe on a patch of grass. This removed most of the poop, but there was still a fair amount of it stuck in the grooves of my sensible, rubber-soled shoe.
I then rubbed the sole of my shoe across the gravel, to no avail.
In that moment, I realized that I had a huge glass of iced-tea in my console, so I dumped the tea on my shoe. Still, the poop remained stuck in the grooves of my sole.
Just then I heard a familiar noise.
It was the sound of an approaching golf cart.
I turned around and realized that I was standing in the parking lot across the street from a private golf club.
I flagged down the driver of the cart, a dark-haired man in his fifties.
"Can you help me?" I asked him. "Today is my first day at a new job, and I just stepped in fresh dog poop." I extended my right leg out to him.
He took a quick look at my shoe and then said, "Get in," gesturing to his cart with a smile.
He drove me across the street to the golf club and as we drove, we fell into an easy conversation. He asked me what my job was, and I told him. I also mentioned that I am a golfer, and I asked him if he is able to get out and golf often. He told me that he does.
He drove me to the cart barn, which is beneath the Club itself.
I found out that his name is Ernie, and as I got out of the cart, he asked me to give him my shoe. I hesitated for a moment because I wasn't sure which would smell worse: the inside of my leather shoe, or the sole of it, caked with poop.
I took a deep breath, removed my shoe, and handed it to him.
He grabbed the nozzle of the power washer nearby and I watched with relief as the poop went flying off of my shoe. Ernie cleaned my shoe with the same attention to detail and concern that I have seen my dad use in my history of taking small objects to him to fix. It occurred to me in that moment that this man has to have a daughter.
"Did you raise your family here?" I asked him.
"We live in *******," he said, "and I have three daughters."
"Ah!" I said, with a victorious smile. This explained his ease in conversing with me. "How old are they?" I continued.
"Well, two are in college, and one is in high school."
So you are used to dealing with emotional women, I thought to myself.
He handed me my shoe, and he drove me back to my car, which was across the street.
"Do you think you got any of it on the floor mat?" he asked me, as he dropped me off.
I looked at him with total dread on my face, got out of his cart, opened my car door, and was nearly knocked over by the smell of dog poop eminating from a large skid of it on my floor mat.
"Hop in," he insisted.
Once again, we drove to the cart barn, and once again, I watched with relief as poop went flying off of my floor mat, courtesy of the power washer.
Ernie was careful to not soak the mat, and he even used a little golf towel to blot it dry afterwards.
I thanked him profusely, and got in his cart once again to be taken back to my car for the final time.
As we drove, I asked him if his manager was around today because I had noticed earlier in my day that this particular golf course did not advertise with my company.
He told me that the manager had left for the day, but that I could catch him tomorrow. I asked him for his manager's name, and made a note of it on my planner once we reached my car.
We shook hands good-bye, I thanked him again, and he wished me luck in my new career.
I worked the rest of the afternoon elated by my good fortune of having met Ernie at exactly the right time, and humbled by his kindness.
That evening I wrote him a thank-you note and told him that I believe that what goes around comes around, and that I was certain that one day, his three daughters would be shown the same kindness by a stranger that he had shown me.
The next morning, I took him a bottle of Merlot, along with the note.
I found him sitting inside the Pro Shop office. His face lit up with recognition when he saw me, and as I handed him the wine and the note he protested that I did not have to do that.
"Well," I told him, "you didn't have to wash poop off my shoe!"
We both laughed, and he wished me luck again as I left his office.
I wish I could tell you that I met with the manager of the golf club and convinced him to advertise with my company, but it didn't happen that way.
I did meet with him.
And he told me that he could not advertise his golf club publicly because it is a private course.
I then told him about Ernie's kindness the previous day, and he listened with complete attention and empathy.
"Thank you so much for sharing that story with me," he said. "That is exactly the sort of service that we expect of our employees here. I'll be sure to let Ernie know that you came and talked to me on his behalf."
I am still riding on the high from Ernie's random act of kindness. I think it is a good reminder for everyone to put their best foot forward in that regard.
Everyday.
We played the best game in the world ... "Imagine-iff" 
This was at the end of the night, after the pizza, the game, and the smack talk. The room grew silent, and Jackie fought back tears as she listened to each of us speak from our hearts. 
Kristin (in black on the left) brought a card with the Footprints poem on it. It had been given to her at her grandpa's funeral. She read it aloud, and then gave it to Jackie.
This did not fly one little bit with the Youth Director and her Sidekick. I was told that Small Group needs to be held at a consistent time and place every week. Because the girls' hearts are impenetrable to the teachings of Jesus when pancakes are involved.
The audience was mostly comprised of people in their twenties and thirties, most of them complete and total Batman fans.
