“I went to church thinking it would be like an epidural...that it would take the pain away...but church isn’t like an epidural; it’s like a midwife...I thought faith would say, ‘I’ll take away the pain and discomfort,’ but what it ended up saying was ‘I’ll sit with you in it.’” —Brené Brown
Have we ever talked about Mr. Goodcents?
I’m sure he doesn’t come up in conversation a whole lot, but maybe he should. The impossibly thin-sliced meat. The fresh cheese. The squeezably soft bread. The wheat buns that don’t even taste like wheat. The melt in your mouth cookies. Heck, our local Mr Goodcents was one of the first to get a Coke Freestyle machine. All hail Mr. Goodcents. Aaaaalllll haaaaaiiillll.
My beautiful friend and once-upon-a-roomie Jordan used to go on sandwich soapboxes with me, because she GOT IT. God help you if you offered to pick up dinner and came home with Jason’s Deli. Jimmy Johns who? Planet Sub? Subway? They can all GET OUT. Mr. Goodcents put magic in their oil and vinegar standard dress. I don’t care if the main ingredient for their mayonnaise was crack—it was the only acceptable option. Give me and Jordan all of the Mr Goodcents. All of it.
Imagine my deep and profound grief when my turkey and swiss ivory tower came tumbling down on a winter’s day.
It was lunch time. I had taken a half day at work for a doctor’s appointment. I entered the local Goodcents to grab lunch on the way home and greeted the young girl behind the counter with a smile. As her associate met me at the end of the counter, I grabbed a cookie and empty cup. I looked down to unzip my wallet and fish for my punch card when I heard the unthinkable.
“How far along are you?”
I stopped dead in my tracks. Looked up, confusion in my eyes. My eyebrows furrowed.
“...I’m sorry?”
“When are you due?” She tried again.
I looked down at my stomach, and looked up again. My mouth went dry.
“Oh, I’m not….”
“You aren’t pregnant?”
“No. Nope. Not pregnant.”
Mortified, I shoved my credit card at her. She muttered a rude apology and rolled up my sandwich to go. I grabbed it and ran. Once I got home I immediately laid my food on the kitchen table, hustled to the bedroom, stripped off my pants, and threw them in the trash. Blake came home later to me in sweatpants, scowling on the couch. He made it halfway through asking about my day when I snapped, “Just don’t ask. We aren’t going to Goodcents anymore.”
It wasn’t until the franchise was sold to a delightful immigrant family (who have NEVER asked me if I was pregnant) that I went back.
I didn’t boycott every Goodcents shop. I even still ate Goodcents sandwiches. But I couldn’t walk back into that particular shop without my cheeks turning bright red.
Every once in awhile, when I’m mindlessly scrolling through my feed, I see this meme pop up on the pages of my fellow church-goers:
And if I’m being super honest here? It’s times like those when I wish I could reach through the screen, rip it off the page, ball it up, and send it hurtling off of a cliff. I despise this meme, and like everything else in my life it apparently takes a really roundabout thread of reasoning to get to the meaty “why” of it. Let me try.
I think a lot of times people get to know me and sort of assume that I live this charmed life. Any explanation to the contrary just lands me deeper in the waters of niceness and naïveté that projects onto all of my interactions. The harder I try to explain that I’ve paid my fair share of dues, the more eye rolls I get (and understandably so—who wants a victim all the time, anyway?). I’m very fortunate. I have amazing people in my life. I’m lucky to have been trained up in values like kindness, listening, and discernment. But I have seen things. A lot of things. Most of the perspectives I’ve ever gained about people are directly tied to stories I’ve listened to and hands I’ve held in their telling.
So when I see meme like these, all I can think of are the thousands of stories behind them. This graphic was created as a frustrated response to shallow observation of people who were offended by a church and walked out. But they speak to the people I know and remember.
The girl who was being beaten at home, but her youth pastor couldn’t be bothered to report it.
The marriage that was torn apart by adultery with another church member.
The deacon who was indignant about paying child support, even though his ex-wife had custody and was living below the poverty line.
The group of girls who were bullying someone because the clothes they had weren’t modest enough.
The man who assaulted a woman because “she was tempting him on purpose.”
And most recently, the middle aged man or woman who was molested by a Sunday School teacher. Or pastor. Or volunteer.
Those people don’t go back to the restaurant. Those people don’t eat out anymore. It’s not that the waiter was rude to them—it’s that every time they came the waiter spit in their food, upended their table, stepped on their silverware and insulted their date…and then the manager walked by and told them to stop making things up and pay for their meal. Their “bad experience” wasn’t just a bad experience, it was deep trauma. And instead of remembering that Jesus is the healer and lover of lost causes who reaches out in the midst of muck and mess—we shrugged our shoulders and made a picture. You’re over-blowing the issue, Melinda. After all, we weren’t talking about THOSE people. THAT stuff isn’t us. That’s OTHER churches.
It’s never us, is it?
For shame.
Within the publishing of the Houston Chronicle’s article regarding over 700 cases of sexual abuse in the SBC, I see and hear so many laments. Cries by baptist churches for repentance. Open prayers for forgiveness and wisdom in moving toward healing. All things that are right and good. I'm glad. I'm glad the pushback is responsibility. Promises for tangible justice: background checks, arrests, relief of employment if allegations are found to be true.
But if I’m honest, I’m also hearing an unsaid murmur humming amongst the observers.
“Oh.
Now you care.
Now.
Now that you look bad. That’s when you’ve chosen to do something.
Not when we asked you for help.
Not when we were afraid.
Not when we needed you.
Now.”
It’s not something I even know how to begin to fix. All I have to offer is a cry of anguish. I hear you. It hurts. I know. And I’m sorry.
I’m sure there is much to be said for going forward. Plans to put in place. Assurances to be made. And I’m glad of it.
But for those who feel left behind in this? I see you. And while I would love to take you out to the new and improved Mr. Goodcents and lavish the love of my Jesus all over your life—in the moment, there’s plenty of time to sit in the quiet. To mourn with those who mourn. He does. If it’s bitterness, anger, grief, confusion, or depression you are sitting in, I’ll be here and ready to sit with you in it.
Church, if we must make this a picture, let’s make it this one:
