Kingsport Spirit

Some of the most important lessons our kids learn don’t come from classrooms, coaches, or report cards. They come from time clocks, name tags, and difficult customers.

When our son was 14, we thought it would be a good idea for him to get a part-time job. Our daughter, too—but I’ll save that for another blog post.

He was busy with wrestling and football, but Food City hired him as a bag boy. At times, it was inconvenient because he couldn’t drive. More than once, we rearranged weekend plans around his shifts, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t frustrate me. I remember asking myself, “Why are we doing this for a part-time job?”

But Cristi and I had both worked when we were younger, and we wanted him to have that experience, too. I worked at my dad’s gas station and on a summer landscaping crew; she worked at her hometown diner.

Those kinds of jobs teach you things you don’t learn in a classroom—how to show up, how to serve, and how to deal with people when you’re tired and it’s not convenient.

I really believe most students benefit from a part-time job—even when the family doesn’t need the paycheck. But we keep our kids so busy with travel sports, shorter summers, and in Kingsport, marching band, that they’re worn out. By the time a job opportunity comes along, it’s easy to say, “Not now.” Honestly, the kids (and the parents) are exhausted. I get it.

He also learned something else pretty quickly: a small town has eyes, and you can’t fly under the radar. “Hey, aren’t you Jeff & Cristi’s boy?” It takes a village. It was embarrassing at times to run into classmates or parents. I’m sure he felt scrutinized, like people were thinking, “Why do you have to work?” And I’m sure some assumed his parents were mean to make him.

After he turned 16, he was promoted to the Produce Department, which is pretty comical because if you know us, we’re carnivores. We should eat more vegetables, but alas—it always remains an unattained goal.

One day, he asked me about a difficult customer. He said the full-time workers saw her coming and disappeared into the back. Since he was the new high school kid, they warned him what was coming: she’d browse, touch all the vegetables, complain about their condition, and threaten to take her business elsewhere. And then they said, “You should tell her, ‘Please do take your business elsewhere.’”

He said, “Dad, should I do that?”

I didn’t want to tell him to be disrespectful, but I also knew that wasn’t the right response. So I said a quick prayer—“God, give me the words”—because earthly dads don’t know as much as their children think they do. At least this one doesn’t.

I said something like, “Son, every person you come in contact with is fighting internal battles you know nothing about. Their behavior usually says more about them than it does about you. Show a little grace.” Based on what he described, I wondered if she might be lonely, angry, or hurting. Maybe she didn’t have a family, a church, or a social network to talk to. That’s a lot to infer about someone I’d never met, but it was my gut feeling. I call those nudges the Holy Spirit, and as I’ve matured, I’ve learned to listen—because sometimes that’s how God whispers.

Instead, I encouraged him to acknowledge her, be kind, and just talk to her—let the conversation flow. If she goes low, you go high. But don’t disengage.

He was quick to report back that “my” advice worked. We all know that counsel came from a higher level.

“Dad, it was amazing,” he said. “She seemed stunned at first that I was talking to her. Then her whole demeanor changed—she didn’t complain, and she moved on to the next aisle. The other guys were watching from the back and asked how in the world I did that.”

When you flip the script and try to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes, it often leads to a very different outcome.

As Christians, we’re taught that grace is something given, not earned. It’s easy to conclude that someone’s behavior warrants a sharp response. It takes maturity to resist that temptation.

That may sound like a mundane lesson, but I’ve used it repeatedly. I’ve counseled mayors and colleagues who want to respond harshly to a chronically complaining citizen or customer. Some people show up with heat. You can match it—or you can lower the temperature. Their behavior often says more about them than it does about us. Know when to take something personally—and when to let it slide.

I still think about that moment in the Produce Department—my son with a name tag, a cart, and a choice. He could’ve matched her tone, or he could’ve made room for her humanity. He chose the high road, and the whole situation changed.

He’s a dad himself now, and I enjoy watching him instill the same values in his girls. And it still makes me smile to think that one of those lessons took root at Food City—one conversation, one choice, one ordinary moment that turned out not to be ordinary at all.

I learned as much as he did.