This morning, during my devotions, I read about Jacob's return home and how terrified he was to face his brother and the 400 men with him. Jacob prayed and God intervened, making his fears unfounded.
That took me back many, many years when I was working graveyard at a Dunkin Donuts in Arizona. Every Saturday night, this big, blonde, Southern farm boy turned army sergeant would stagger in after the NCO Club closed on base. His demand never changed. Coffee, a Bavarian Creme, and a fork. The only person I ever met who ate his donut with a fork. His drunken belligerence was intimidating, to say the least. One night, I was busy and didn't hear his demands for something, and he made a really nasty remark about my ignoring him. (I think I forgot the fork.) When the boss and his wife came in, I mentioned it to the boss' wife. "Feel free to call the police if you think he's going to cause trouble," was her immediate response.
"I have the feeling he'd tear the place apart if I did that," I replied.
The next week, a woman who used to work at the NCO Club sat down beside him. She recognized him and they began to talk. After he left, I asked her if she knew him. I mentioned the previous behavior and my concern. "Oh, yes, he'd tear this place apart. I saw him do it one night at the club when the bar tender refused to serve him anymore." Not a very comforting response to my question.
The following Saturday night (about 1:30 a.m. really), I saw him get out of his car and move toward the door in his typical unsteady gait. I'll fix your wagon. I poured his coffee, put his donut on a plate, and set his fork on a napkin beside the plate.
He straddled the stool without looking at what I'd put on the counter for him. Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he began fiddling with the coins he held before he looked up at me and said, "What can I get for this?" The change he held wasn't enough to pay for his order, so I asked the baker what we should do. The coffee was already poured and the donut was already out of the case.
The baker smiled and said, "Tell him it's on the house." With the biggest smile I could muster and the most polite tone of voice I had, I repeated what the baker said.
Sergeant farm boy muttered a thanks and set upon his donut and coffee. Unbeknownst to me, his pride was wounded. He never came back!
Arguing with a drunk is a waste of time. You're talking to chemicals that can't respond. Arguing with a bully could get you hurt. Arguing with a drunken bully is doubly dangerous. By God's grace alone, the situation was rectified. Is it any wonder God's Word consistently tells us not to fear?
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