Pouring Ketchup

I was sitting in a booth at a McDonald’s in Kalamazoo, Michigan, trying to

slop a little black ink on a white page for a book I was working on. I had a

severe case of writer’s block. It was so frustrating to have over fifty years of life

under my belt and yet feel I had nothing important to share with the world. I

had thoroughly grazed through the card catalog of my past trying to think of

something clever to pass on but with no luck. I felt like I had all this profound

stuff jammed inside me but didn’t know how to get it out. I didn’t want to

write just to write. I started out to write this book not because I wanted to

say something but rather because I had something to say.

The thought quietly kept tumbling through my mind: Dennis, if you

had the microphone and could tell the whole world one thing, what would

it be? It was an interesting question, but still no answer. That morning I’d

occupied a booth for two-and-a-half hours and twenty-seven Cokes. I was

kind of whining to God, Hey, I’m here to write this book You asked me to

write, but you’ve got to kick in a few paragraphs. There was nothing from

heaven falling on my booth or my book. So I patiently stayed cemented in

my borrowed office just watching people.

After a few minutes of this public-surveillance thing a plump, middleaged,

African American lady walked in chaperoning four white people all of

whom, you could just tell, had been dealt a less-than-winning hand in life.

They would be considered adults by age only. The four giggled and poked

each other as if at a junior high dance. Their clothes were as outdated as their

hairstyles, but they sure were glad to be dining at McDonald’s.

My eyes were spying on their every move. One of the men was trying to

pour ketchup in one of those small, white, paper cups. He kept pumping the

button but always missed the cup, and ketchup flopped everywhere. Another

lady was trying to put a lid on her Coke but couldn’t figure out what size.

Another one kept missing her mouth as she tried to eat her salad. Her face

had ranch dressing all over it. One man just kept rocking back and forth,

smiling and grunting out more sounds than sentences that only he seemed

to understand. After what seemed like four hours of fumbling around trying

to eat meals any one of which would have taken me five minutes to inhale,

they were almost done.

I began to imagine how different our lives were. I could pour ketchup,

pick lids, and hit my mouth 99 percent of the time. I could order my own

food. I could go to the bathroom by myself. I could dress myself and tie my

own shoes. Yet all these things were uphill struggles every day of their lives.

My life seemed so different from theirs. Who makes the call when people are

born that this one will be able to pour ketchup but that one won’t? That this

one will be able to eat and that one will have to be fed? Though our two booths

were only inches away, it seemed like the Grand Canyon separated our lives.

I felt a little guilty for feeling so blessed.

Then I sensed God nudge me to do something that completely surprised

me. He said, Ask them…