[ tip your server :: their stories ]

Part IV of IV. All names have been changed for privacy.

Coffee shops are interesting in the mornings, especially around 8 a.m. or so. Women in the business world straighten out their suit jackets - another 12-hour day follows their daily caramel latte. Older men add a newspaper to their coffee order and sit in the same corner seat for hours reading that USA Today cover-to-cover: the Yankees lost last night. We're sending more troops overseas. Gas prices are continuing to skyrocket.

Oftentimes before I'd begin early-morning breakfast shifts I'd be there, too, ordering myself a cup of their house blend (add skim milk and one Splenda, please) and a muffin and be on my way to serve dozens of guests of my own, who would want coffee and muffins too, and who even liked shredded cheese on their grits. I'd accommodate their requests, even if it took an extra 45 seconds to refill the ingredients reserved for salads and other items in the "prep area." Time is money in a restaurant whose guests expect pleasant service, fresh food and subsequently, a toothy grin to boot.

Some seemingly important things - like caffeine to start an early morning, MLB and even the injustice of a three-dollar gallon of gas all began to quickly fade away when I was awakened to reality beyond my doorstep and my comfortable lifestyle in small-town, northern Ohio: realities of food stamps and of broken-down apartments and of alcohol dependence; of one-night stands and of domestic violence and of this place, this kitchen, defining stability and security in the life of these servers.

These were their stories:

Karen, who - without a doubt - was one of my favorite coworkers, ran out of food stamps in late July and couldn't afford formula for her four-month old for at least another four days. One afternoon when we were in the midst of a shift change, Karen and I passed one another and I noticed that she had slimmed down and was wearing a brand-new pair of khakis with her pink oxford shirt. She hadn't bought any clothes for herself in six months, she said. Karen loves Mountain Dew and zucchini, but only indulges every so often.

Dawn - the super-server - had a birthday and was scheduled to work (we needed her that morning), but was so hurt by her husband refusing to spend time with her on her "damn birthday" that she left - in a hurry, unable to force out a word.

Matt - the associate manager - who believed his career was dependent upon 12-hour days, and of nodding in full agreement during meetings with the regional manager, had to support his wife, and his daughters. In a heartbeat, Matt's heart would soften if you asked to see photos of his beloved family.

Stories of getting "stiffed" and later catching up with a $20 tip from a few college students; real-life things like poverty and brokenness both intensified and forgotten about (even if for a shift) in the kitchen. On the floor. In that place.

No words or stories can adequately describe what is out there - beyond this place we call home, and in the lives of those who live-out service, day-in and day-out. But as future businessmen and women - and maybe even doctors or lawyers or teachers - we must see beyond their aprons and frizzy hair; their off-day mistakes and confused orders.

A $4 tip becomes $40, and $40 buys formula and pays apartment rent; $40 isn't ten medium cappuccinos, but an oil change that has been on the back burner for months, or a credit card bill payment that is two weeks overdue.

Tip your server.

(15 to 20 percent is adequate for tipping a server at a restaurant. If you are part of a large group and the restaurant - like the one I worked at this summer - does not have an automatic gratuity added on to your bill, consider at least a three to four percent increase on top of what you usually give if you are in a smaller party. Tipping.org is also a good Web source.)

[ tip your server :: slammed! ]

Part III of IV. All names have been changed for privacy.

Serving for a restaurant whose motto claims that the chain is comprised of "breakfast people all day" requires early morning wake-up calls; 6:30 a.m. to be precise. And with the unrelenting, monotonous beeping coming from just three feet away, there was no turning back; no centimeter-wide snooze button to hit multiple times and no "dismiss" option to press on my cell phone's alarm with the assurance that I could muster up the strength to wake up in just five minutes. Just five more minutes of sleep. Yes, that would be ideal.

Nighttime training had quickly turned to breakfast shifts, and with that, early mornings were necessary. My car had broken down a few weeks earlier, so my mom drove me to work: highway travel for seven miles and five or ten minutes through summertime traffic toward the restaurant that I was beginning to claim as my own.

I was learning the MICROS shortcuts for breakfast combinations, but beyond that, I was learning faces and names - of coworkers and of older men who would ask for whole milk, not half-and-half, for their fresh-brewed decaf coffee. I obliged, even though I was dead-tired after another night of only three hours of sleep (it takes me awhile to learn lessons, apparently). "Please people," my training booklets asserted. "Guests first," my managers reminded me. Of course, I'd reply, repeating face-value statements whose authenticity was carried out only through tried-and-true service. Okay, I'd say; I'll apologize when their food is late; I'll thank them and tell them to stop by again. I did, and I meant it - most of the time, anyway.

One morning I arrived at about 8:50 a.m. for my 9 o'clock shift and saw that the restaurant's parking lot was fairly bare: a few cars here and there, several vans with out-of-state license plates whose owners were surely hoping to meet Cedar Point's gate-opening at 9 a.m., stuffed full with blueberry pancakes and sausage links; not having to buy too-expensive fried food at the park at least until early afternoon. Mom had dropped me off near the front of the restaurant; I walked in, gazed around our adjacent country store for a few moments (Halloween items had arrived just days earlier) and found that our front dining room was packed. "Slammed," as the other servers and managers would continue to say all summer. Indeed, we were "slammed."

A tour bus (traveling to - not through - Sandusky, to be sure) had arrived around 8 a.m. The group insisted that their forty-some members sit in the front section: the area farthest away from smoking - and closest to our country store. And, on that day, the front section was the area whose servers included Dawn (the career waitress who aimed higher and higher to live up to satisfy our guests), and Jeremy, who had just completed training in my hire group. Jeremy was my age, but needed more than just a few thousand dollars for tuition - he had medical bills to pay from a recent motorcycle injury, and even more debt to pay back for that same wrecked bike. Jeremy wasn't prepared to handle eight tables at once, or for whole breakfast platters that would be sent back because of French toast that was too crunchy, and eggs too runny (over-easy eggs made at home translate into over-medium in a chain restaurant). With all of his tables "live" and several orders neglected because he hadn't inputted them into the computer system, Jeremy immediately became frustrated, threw down his nametag and his swipe card near the serving station, hopped on his newly-bought motorcycle, and drove off into the freedom he had wanted all along. I could almost hear him accelerating down Route 250, speeding past the mall and all of the competing restaurants, all blurring to his left and to his right.

I had never seen anything quite like his reaction to the busyness and high stress of serving those who rode in that tour bus, who would continue on their day; maybe frustrated with that hour or so, but guests who hadn't been able to hear that this Jeremy - this 20 year-old whose hands and feet couldn't keep up that day - was really trying to succeed there, even if it wasn't his "thing." Those two and three-dollar tips would repay debt, and cover apartment rent away from parents - a sprint away from worry and from pain.

I jumped in early that morning, taking Jeremy's tables and assuring Dawn that she had done well, even if half of the section's tickets had been voided because of complaints.

I jumped in, for another day; another day of serving breakfast even until 2 p.m., of out-of-town guests and of regulars; of "six-tops" and of aiming to please each and every guest, regardless of circumstance or preference. Jeremy hadn't missed the "mark," but he hadn't expected that this would be so much different than anything he had done before, like repairing and selling cars at a local dealership.

Time and time again, I too was as unassuming as Jeremy, blinded by the summer sun coming through slightly-opened curtains and through this 8 to 5 journey of my own.

[ tip your server :: i've got your back ]

Part II of IV. All names have been changed for privacy.

No mayonnaise, but add bread and butter pickles. Substitute soup for fries with a BLT platter (no extra charge). Eggs poached medium with limp bacon (who knew?).

With breakfast served all day and two full menus to learn, it was time to buckle down, memorize every possible meal combination and practice inputing food tickets on our computer system. During those shifts, four hours seemed like ten, and this was still training.

Experienced servers and managers would look over my shoulder, wondering, perhaps, who this "Jessica" was, the college girl with the relentlessly crooked name tag, no embroidery on her uniform; the Jessica with brand-new, double-tied, grip-the-floor tennis shoes that still squeaked with their overpriced newness.

Search, enter, print. Search, enter print. Flipping through the training booklet, I looked ahead to count how many practice tickets I had left: four, to be exact. These last few seemed simple enough, though I couldn't imagine guests regularly ordering fried chicken livers with a double order of lima beans (today's choice vegetable, by the way). What kind of milkshake? Caramel, but make sure to touch "NO" and "WHIP," or whipped cream, as we're in the business of top-notch guest service, and of making the process as flawless as possible for our preparatory, or "prep" cooks. Makes enough sense.

Leah, a trainer herself, a seven-year employee of the company, was my saving grace: "Jessica," she'd say, "You come to me if you need help. I'll be patient."

At that time, it meant the world to me; after all, she wasn't my assigned trainer. Learning the 'ropes' of a restaurant can feel like a losing battle, so I needed those words.

She was patient with me, taking me in and pulling me aside often to tell me "she [had] my back." I liked that; it seemed like she was fighting for me: for the abilities she saw in me; for, maybe, who she thought I was behind the ironed oxford button-ups, Dockers and a constant bundle of nerves. Take a deep breath, I'd tell myself, especially as I saw Leah stride with confidence across the server station. She has six tables. You have only one.

I'm positive Leah is still working 4 to 10 p.m. after days with her young kids, who I only saw once or twice on Thursdays (schedule and check pick-up days). I'm sure that she is pushing to make more and more each night; Christmas is coming, and her son and daughter are treasures to her.

Leah is not alone in this. At our restaurant, server booklets were plastered with photos from birthday parties and once-a-year trips to Cedar Point.

The working middle class is to be revered for the pride they have in their work. For many of the women I worked with, this was life. Life to be lived, work to be done, and with class: Leah, with her whitened, toothy smile. Shelia, with her perfectly-applied cherry lipstick and hair clasps. Dawn, in her drive to please guests.

Embedded in the hearts, however, of these women was the idea that their serving ability, or inabilities, defined their character. "I can't go back on the floor," Dawn would say, torn apart by a 45-minute ticket she had forgotten to input into the computer system. "I'm too embarassed. Drop my ticket for me."

I grew in respect for Leah, for Shelia and for Dawn; for these dozens of women whose days were planned around this restaurant. This was community. This was a safe haven. This was an escape.

Leah "had my back," and I felt that. In the same way, I wanted to support these servers, fight for these women's hearts: fight for them in prayer and in the opportunities I had to honor them.

Good and whole and lasting things often come with struggling, and I thought I was prepared. Maybe I was prepared for those; those true and beautiful end-alls, but not for some of the situations and experiences I'd see and hear about.

The kitchen is much more than input, prep and service; repeat, repeat, repeat. It is life for those who see it through each day, who struggle on its behalf and rejoice in its wellbeing.

[ tip your server :: you're hired! ]

Part I of IV. All names have been changed for privacy.

As of late, two or three of my best friends and I have escaped the usual study routine in our dorm rooms, journeying a hundred feet or so to the hidden treasure that is the back lobby of Kelley Hall.

Often we take our computers (I haul my Dell while they bring their grab-and-go Apple laptops) and the books we need for the research papers and essays we're writing. The three or four of us claim a table near an outlet, plugging in only for power; there's no Internet access here. The only persistent thought is the task at hand; otherwise, we're carefree, taking breaks for coffee or conversations about faith and life after college that last for hours.

We're dreamers. Into the early morning, we talk earnestly about our desire to be a real part of people's lives, leaving the "American Dream" behind to chase after God's plans, even if it means moving thousands of miles away or living in a modest apartment or small home our entire lives. This is all very exciting to us, to be honest.

When we talk, I tend to forget the months that have passed; namely, the summer months spent at home in northern Ohio serving tables at a large chain restaurant specializing in home-cookin'.

For dozens of my coworkers, living sustainably wasn't something to be attained after realizing that the world had nothing much to offer. It was reality. In fact, it was a reality to be firmly grasped on a daily, if not moment-by-moment basis. Sustainability was the chief aim, not a decision made through late-night dialogue and careful introspection.

I had experience in food service, having worked at a locally-owned Italian restaurant throughout my junior year of high school, waiting on families whose daughters I played middle school volleyball with and whose sons starred on our champion football team. Families seemed to understand if their pizza took a few minutes longer than usual if the football game had just ended or if we were understaffed for the evening. They would call me by name, asking me about my plans for college or where my graduation party was going to be held. Small-town America, defined.

Serving for a corporately-owned restaurant, though, was fairly new to me. I had known for awhile that I wanted to serve tables for the summer, but I'm not sure if I knew what I was getting myself into. Waiting tables seemed glorified to me; I even manufactured a formula for how much in tip money I could make on a weekly basis, taking into account the number of tables I would have at one point in time and, of course, the fifteen to twenty-percent tips that guests would surely leave on the table.

I was hired as a server within a half-hour or so of filling out an application during an open house at the restaurant, interviewing with both an associate manager and the "G.M.," or one commonly-held slang term for the general manager of the restaurant. Matt*, the associate manager, asked me scripted questions: "Tell us about one poor experience you had with a coworker and how you defeated circumstances and were able to rise to the top." Jeff, the G.M., was concerned about the length of my serving stint: a college summer, almost three months exactly. He asked me why I wanted to work for the company, to which I replied with probably a fairly sugar-glazed answer. I wanted the job; I desired the security of knowing that I had obtained a full-time job only a few days after arriving home from campus. And it worked.

Training was two-fold: first, the group of newly-hired employees met each morning the following week with Shellie, our employee services coordinator. She made the early-morning training as pleasant as she could, enticing us with sampler platters of customers' favorite home-cooked dishes and with fountain drinks (which would be off-limits in only a few days; company policy). Shellie has one of those charming personalities that invites young and old in, drawing them into her life with anecdotes that make her life as a middle-class American look like gold. Shellie is the heart of that restaurant. Even the half-dozen or so managers will admit that.

Secondly, the new hires were required to shadow an experienced server for a week or so, tagging along and acting as the runner for refills of fresh-brewed sweet tea and extra maple syrup. I liked this time; I could ask Lydia, my trainer, about her life without having to worry too much about ticket times or the crispness of bacon. I'd tag along during night shifts after her gardening, cleaning-filled days; she had been planning for her father's surprise eightieth birthday party for months. I asked her about the food she'd be preparing; she was concerned about the price of deli meat, and of gas and plasticware. An extra hundred dollars or so is not easy to come by, even as a waitress who has faithfully served a restaurant since its opening.

Training was that in-between time that gives you a quick, outside glimpse into circumstances that are a bit blurred, slightly tainted. It was an adjustment, to be sure, but still was that comfortable time when you aren't fully 'let loose' into independence and responsibility.

Frankly, I had no idea that being released into serving on my own would be the beginning of a three-month stint not only just for sustainability, but for some serious, needed life lessons.

[ the c-b ]

I was sitting in the parking lot of Best Buy today, facing the back side of the restaurant where I served this past summer -- sitting there, in John's truck -- listening the first-programmed station on his radio, 94.5 FM (the station played most often in the kitchen of the Cracker Barrel too; classic rock hits, mostly from the 80's).

After a moment or two, I noticed Martin stationed by the fenced-in trash areas near the employee parking spaces behind the restaurant. Martin was one of the dishwashers hired toward the end of the summer -- a middle-aged man whose heart was in the job and who was beginning to love that place in August. I'm sure he's been named Employee of the Month by now.

Trash cans, chocked full of industrial-strength clear bags laden with extra food scraps, rolled toward him, speeding from thirty or forty feet away with a perfect arc (this had been done before, to be sure).

Then there was Jake, an associate manager who never called me anything but "Jessica" and whose really cute kids would sometimes visit him at work alongside his wife; Jake, the pitcher of sorts of these half-dozen trash cans flying toward Martin, who would complete the task and return to the dishroom to run hundreds of forks, knives and spoons through the machine for servers to roll.

I hadn't been back or seen anyone from there since August, so I sort of just sat in the truck and watched for awhile, praying for those people and having this strong feeling that God had more to show me -- more to teach me -- in that type of work: serving.

Anyway, I thought I'd post my "Tip Your Server" series on this blog. I wrote a nonfiction series at the end of this semester in a print journalism class I took, and would love for anyone to take a look at it -- and for comments, too.

Chase after Him.

Jessie

(All names have been changed for privacy.)

[ growing up... ]

A few friends and I went out later this evening for one of my best friend's birthdays, and we were talking some about how it feels like a lot of us are growing up -- but in that, feeling like we really don't always 'have it together,' with all of our plans and dreams and hopes carefully blueprinted and so on.

I've been struck by that so much this semester -- that I am still young and inexperienced and have a lot to learn, but that Jesus is faithfully walking alongside me.

He is here -- pushing us forward in this life of ours, toward our Father who loves us and fights for us and humbles us.

He's teaching me through His Spirit -- through loved ones and hard things I'm learning.

He's interceeding for me, molding me to become more giving, more teachable, more gentle. More fully dependent on His grace alone.

This 'not having it all together' business is exciting -- but scary too, to be honest.

There's no more...
pieced-together and mounted puzzles,

no confidence in my flesh alone,

no conjuring up I'm okay(s)...

no room to rely on anything lifeless -- dead -- buried.

Instead there's...
His Word: bearing hope -- alive -- resurrected.

promises,

strength,

restoration,

real community...

and

the Cross.

I don't know why I choose to live for anything less than this.

-Jessie

[ His gospel is peace ]

This afternoon my friend Adam was working desk and we were talking about our tendency to dwell on insignificant things -- reality only found in front of our eyes, in this dorm and on our campus. We talked some about how these kinds of things -- you know, complaining about laundry or dining hall food or even completely turning all of our attention toward academia -- gives us this wholly self-reliant, self-sufficient mindset.

In my life, not only do these thoughts turn all of my energies toward what's in it for me or how I can continue to secure my independence, but it really affects my relationships with others. My impatience has wounded me, and it's something that God is working with me to heal.

Often I've made the 'small stuff' the most painful and least joy-yielding, and have lost sight of the bigger picture of the 'big stuff' that God is doing -- in the lives of those around me, and in my own heart, too.

You know, I really want to be daily reconciled to Him, and I know it's going to take a serious push past self-sufficiency and worry -- into abundant life with Him that urges me to really seek out all of His promises. And in my own life now, to really be able to pray and trust God to be restoring me to Himself and to others around me.

It's been cool to see Him work already in that, and to begin to experience that peace that Christ gives again. It's been pretty powerful, even in the last few days.

Jesus is alive and real -- powerful and active -- and His Spirit is interceeding in big ways that push us toward Him and away from ourselves.

Praise God for that, because my own attempts to 'piece the puzzle together' fail each and every time.

Wow, guys -- let's trust Him for everything.

Jessie

[ reconciled ]

It's late -- been praying a lot. Thinking a lot. Thought I'd write a quick blog.

A few things I'm learning:

It's a beautiful thing to sit with a friend -- or even someone you don't know -- and just listen; to let them talk and share life with you. A few times this week I've been able to catch up with some people -- and shed a few tears with them too -- and just know that God is working in their hearts and is anxious to reconcile them to Himself. I really want to trust Him for this.

I'm growing into the young woman God has created me to be. The reality of Him pursuing me and fighting for my heart seems very authentic and tangible to me right now.

We have an enemy who wants to grab anything that's true and lasting and restoring from under our feet and implant just-skewed-enough lies in our lives. We must -- we must -- claim Jesus' victory on the Cross. This world is more of a battlefield than we'll ever know, with hearts and lives at stake. This is real stuff.

There are others around us right now who are fading quickly, drowning in brokenness and the flesh. Jesus has come to give abundant life and to restore them. We must share His life, death and resurrection with them.

God is teaching me to keep giving -- keep sharing love, only through His grace and the power of the Holy Spirit.

We are so small but so vital. I've been thinking a lot lately about this paradox and would love to talk about it sometime.

Speaking of which, does anyone identify with any paradoxes or metaphors of God? More on this later, probably. My boyfriend Joe has been asking students on our campus how they relate to God (specifically, metaphor stuff -- i.e., "I am a blank canvas, and God is the artist."). I really like that approach.

Those around us are learning so much too -- let's take time to really listen and interact with them. It's been amazing to me how willingly and quickly others will share deep, spiritual things.

Keep chasing hard after Him.

Jessie