Paradigm Shift

She was just the lady in the cubicle across from mine.


Well, to be honest, she was "the rather annoying lady in the cubicle across from mine." She was negative, always complaining about something—work, the weather, co-workers, the government—you name it, she'd complain about it. I'd plaster a sympathetic smile on my face and politely nod as she talked, but in my head I wrote her off. I'd already cut her up and put her into neat little boxes.


Thirtysomething, married, no kids—probably too caught up in herself to have children. She seemed to avoid getting to know people at work—anti-social. Pessimist. Complainer. I stuck on all my neat little labels, dusted off my hands, and felt rather satisfied with myself.


Then today, she shattered all my boxes.


She came over to my cubical and asked me to pray for her. Okay, I said. Then she explained that she had to have a difficult conversation with a friend about a man the friend was dating. She was concerned that the man might be abusive. "Of course, I tend to be overprotective." she said. Then she paused and said, "You know my story, right?"


I shook my head. No, I didn't know her story.


There in the middle of my cubicle the words tumbled out in hushed tones. She had been married to an abusive man. They had a beautiful little girl who charmed everyone. "My daughter even talked to me about God and Jesus,"  she said, her eyes large with amazement, "and I NEVER took her to church." The woman explained that when she couldn't take the abuse any longer, she took her six-year old daughter and left him. She was getting help, turning her life around. Then one day while the daughter was in the care of some friends, the ex-husband came and took the girl. He killed her and then himself.
That was eleven years ago. Since then she had slowly put her life back together. She had married a man who was honest and stable. She was working toward her life-long dream of owning and training a horse. "But I don't think I could ever have any more children. No one could take the place of my daughter."


I felt as if someone had taken a bat and hit me in the head. All my neat little glass boxes shattered into pieces. There were tiny shards in my hair. I could hear the glass crunch under my feet. Before my eyes, the labels suddenly changed. Selfish, negative, and complaining melted into wounded, courageous, hopeful, resilient.


At first I wept for my co-worker and her pain. Then I wept angry, remorseful tears for myself. How could I be so judgmental? Why do I feel the need to label people? Perhaps I'm lazy. Loving people unconditionally takes time and who has a surplus of that? It's faster and easier to stuff people into boxes. Perhaps I'm stingy with my love. I only have so much emotional energy—barely enough for my family and friends. Sorry, folks, but some of you get written off.


Unlike Jesus, we can't go up to the woman at the well and see everything she had ever done. We only get what people choose to reveal to us, and often those insufficient glimpses color our entire attitude toward the person. Grace tells us to love people whether or not they chose to reveal the forces that have shaped their soul. Grace compels us to love people whether or not we feel their backstory justifies their behavior. Grace refuses to affix labels or stuff people into boxes. Loves always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.


So I sit here in my little cubicle and vow to change. No more boxes. No more labels. 


Excuse me, but I've got a mess to clean up.


andrea stark


"It is a serious thing . . . to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no 'ordinary' people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. . . . And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner . . ."
—C.S. Lewis