Two stories about gastronomical disappointment
My first year of doing ministry apprenticeship in Australia consisted of a lot of following Euge around and listening to him teach here and there. One Saturday he picked me up from home and told me that we were going to go down to Stanwell Tops where he would be teaching a seminar on something something (it was a while ago and I can’t remember). He said on the way down we’ll swing by the Maccas and grab some dinner.
Something that people in Australia often get wrong about the U.S. is that we don’t like nicknames as much as you guys do. The truth is, we are just as lazy as you are and we also feel the need to shorten everything in order to try to save time and mouth energy. The only thing is, we’re not as good at it. And so our nickname for McDonalds was another three-syllable term, “Mickey D’s”. Net time and effort saved: Zero.
And so because of that, I had never heard of this Maccas before. I was so excited. I had only been living in Sydney for a few weeks and I was still thirsty for new experiences. I couldn’t wait to find out what Maccas was and what kind of tasty down under delights they served.
Anyway I got a double quarter pounder with large fries and profound disappointment and on the car ride down we talked about what doing ministry in a Chinese church was like. No kidding. Twelve years ago Euge told me that working in a Chinese church involves reading and writing a LOT of policy papers and here we are and the prophecy has held true.
One time when I was in high school my dad told me about a time that he tried to try a new menu item at McDonalds. Years ago, back when he used to commute home from his office in lower Manhattan, he would take the 7 train from end to end, Times Square to Flushing. Along the alley to his bus transfer there was a dingy McDonalds which Google Maps tells me is now a Chipotle (so awesome to see that Lucia’s pizza is still there by the way).
He told me that every day he’d see a sign on the window that advertised a new menu item called an “atom”. Only 99 cents! Every time he passed by he’d want to try it out, not knowing if it was a kind of burger or side or whatever. So finally one day he decided that he would come home a little bit later and a little bit fuller and so he dug out a dollar and eight cents from the mug of change he had (in New York, sales tax is never included in the listed menu price… dumb) and got off the subway and headed towards the McDonalds.
He gets to the front of the line and with eager anticipation asks for “one atom please”. The cashier looked at him puzzled. He repeats himself, “The atom! Can I get an atom? You said it’s only 99 cents”. He gestures towards the poster towards on the window.
The cashier looks at the window and back at him with bemusement and gestures towards a machine in the corner of the restaurant.
My dad looks at the machine and then back at the sign again. And with embarrassment and a tinge of shame he slinks out of the McDonalds and onto the next Q12 to have a proper dinner at home and to tell his son this story one day.
When we’re apart it hurts. But I am thankful for that pain, because it tells me that I belong to someone. I’m sure there are things that I can do to make sure that I never have to feel those bad feelings. This is the age of the therapeutic; there is no better time in all of history than now to doctor your life so that you always feel good and never feel bad. We have an array medical, psychological, psychic, and psychosocial tool to ease every pain you can conceive of.
But if I lose that pain then I lose myself. It is a far, far better thing to be able to hurt for someone else, even to be hurt by someone else. Don’t close yourself. They will not always wound. They will also heal and make clear and designate.
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