The B.O.D.
The B.O.D.
Sounds like a fancy place to live, doesn't it? As in, "I live in the B.O.D., how about you?" A place that would have it's own zip code and it's own television show, right?
It's not.
The B.O.D. exists in the everyday vernacular of my friends. It's often given among our circle, very often received. It's good when you get it, but sometimes, I find it's not so easy for me to give. Especially to those who really deserve it.
It's The Benefit of the Doubt.
I have one friend who gives it freely. She's so good at it. I mean, really, really good. She sees the best in people before she considers the worst, and when I think about it, she is very well-liked in town. Gee, I wonder if the two are connected?
The other day, I was in line at Wal-Mart. It was an exceptionally short line, which felt like a miracle at the moment. The gentleman in front of me only had a couple of items. Even I didn't have a full cart— it was a quick shopping day. Just a handful of items to get my family through the weekend. Bread, milk, soda, baseballs, Gatorade, chocolate, donuts. The basic weekend food pyramid.
I approached the checkout. Where was the conveyer belt? Then I saw the sign. "20 items or less."
"I'm in the wrong line," I said.
"There's no one behind you," said the guy in front of me.
The cashier, an older man, said, "It's okay, you can stay."
"I don't mind moving," I said. In my head, I was imagining the worst-case-scenario, arriving behind me in line. A snarky housewife, a family with toddlers trying to move it along, a mean old man who might yell at me. . .
"Suit yourself," said the cashier.
"What do you have, anyway," said the nice man in front of me, "like, 23 items?"
He was right, so I stayed, having been invited by the cashier. I quickly began putting items on the check-out stand, when it happened. Customers behind me. A dad and two sons, with a squirt-gun each, ready to buy them and go play.
"How many items does she have, DAD?"
"Why is she breaking the rules?"
"Some people just break the rules."
My defenses were up. I wanted to turn and apologize. I should have, really. I was, in all actuality, breaking the rules. But the chatter behind me continued, and I couldn't muster up the strength to turn around and just tell them. . .what?. . . that I was a nice person who is generally a rule-follower? That I always let customers with fewer items jump ahead of me in line? That I return my shopping cart and I never steal grapes? I wanted to ask them to give me the benefit of the doubt. I had made an honest mistake and I had worked it out in an honest manner with the cashier. Their nasty chatter was hurting my feelings.
In the parking lot, they were parked across from me, and I fake-cried when I was putting my cart back. I know, I know, it seems dramatic, but here was my thought process. If the dad saw me wipe my eyes and let out a big shuddering sigh, maybe he might think for a minute, "Hey, that woman is having a really rotten day, and I just gave her a really hard time. I should have been nicer and made my mean little boys stop their rude behavior." You see, this is the dream world I live in.
But the truth is, I need to stop and think about this, too. Because I'm just as guilty as judging too quickly, getting easily angry, assuming the worst of someone's smallest actions. And sometimes, I might need to stop and remember that I don't really know the whole story of someone's day, week, month, or life. The benefit of the doubt is a free and easy thing to offer. And while my tears that day weren't real, someone else's day might truly be horrible, their month might be unbearable, their life might have taken a bad turn. They don't need me and my silly judgements to make it worse.
I love this. Love it.
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. . . and I thank you
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