The Bell On The Counter

It sits on the counter.
It has a sign next to it with written directions.
Ring the bell, please!
Ring the bell if no one is there to assist you.

I struggle with ringing the bell.
It feels rude.
It feels like what they are doing in the back room is unimportant.
It feels as if my need supersedes their work.

As the customer, I guess to some degree it does.
It still does not lessen my discomfort.
I have rung the bell a few times.
I touch it ever so lightly; it is a wonder they even hear me.

In fact, the few times I have rung the bell, I have apologized.
I really don’t like that bell, I have said often with a smile.
That’s what it’s there for; we don’t know anyone is out here unless you ring it.
That made me feel somewhat better.

Somewhat.

I happened to be behind someone as they were being helped at the counter.
It was a woman with her little girl.
It had snowed the day before and the floor was sprinkled with rock salt.
I was looking down at the various boot marks on the floor when I saw sparkly shoes.

The little girl was all bundled up for the winter, except her shoes.
She was not wearing boots on this winter day, but rather sparkly pink shoes.
Her shoes almost reminded me of Dorothy’s ruby slippers, except they were pink.
She was dancing to imaginary music, though audible to her.

She pirouetted around the waiting area.
I was enthralled at her abandon.
She saw a few things that caught her eye, which made her temporarily stop her dance.
She would resume her dancing, accompanied by the inner music that only she could hear.

In one of her pirouettes, she spied the bell.
The bell that begs to be rung.
The bell with the sign that instructs the customer to ring it.
The bell that makes me so uncomfortable.

She reached up to the counter, her little fingers feeling around for the bell.
She stood on her tip-toes but still could not see what was above her.
She rang the bell ever so lightly.
She pulled her hand away quick as a flash.

She turned to see if anyone saw her do it.
I smiled and was just about to tell her how much I loved her shoes.
She reached up again, straining to get the prize.
Her fingers found what they were looking for, and she rang the bell again.

Don’t touch that sweetheart, her mother said kindly.
The little girl nuzzled against her mom’s leg.
But temptation got the best of her.
There was a bell on the counter and bells were meant to be rung.

She reached up and rang it a third time, much louder than before.
The clerk behind the counter reached out and grabbed the bell away.
The clerk banged the bell on a back counter, far out of reach.
The clerk never said a word.

The mother was visibly upset.
Please, don’t be rude to my little girl; she’s just a child.
The clerk went about the business at hand automatically, without responding.
This may be the last time I do business here; I don’t appreciate being treated like this.

Her statement was emphatic yet had some wiggle room.
Wiggle room for the clerk to make it right.
Wiggle room to start over.
Wiggle room to smile at the little girl and remember what it was like to be four years old.

None of that happened.
The wiggle room disappeared.
Nothing was said or remedied.
No apologies were spoken.

The woman left with the little girl trying hard to follow behind.
Her sparkly shoes seemed to accentuate the rock salt speckled floor.
The little girl had no idea what had happened.
There was a bell, and bells were meant to be rung.

I approached the counter, finished what I needed to do, and quickly left.
I pondered what I had just witnessed.
The “why” of it all.
The frustration, the misunderstanding, and the impetuosity of youth.

The clerk has probably heard that bell a hundred times throughout the day.
However, the bell is there on the counter and there is a sign telling people to ring it.
The response of the clerk could have been much different.
I’m going to move the bell over here, but you can ring it one more time before I do.

The little girl was not being disobedient or ornery.
The little girl was being four: inquisitive, full of energy, and playful.
If only the clerk had seen her sparkly pink shoes.
If only the clerk had seen her dancing to the ongoing music of childhood in her head.

If only.

I was sad when I drove away thinking of what might have been.
How many arguments are started over something that small?
How many disagreements are irreconcilable due to simple things we forget after a while?
How much damage has been done because we see black and white and not sparkly pink?

Because of the Lord’s great love, we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:22,23)

I am so thankful that God sees pink sparkly shoes.
I am so grateful for the song that He puts in our head.
I am so amazed at the dance of life He enables us to dance.
I am so delighted that we can reach up to what is beyond our reach and find Him.

I encountered God that morning.
I will never look at the bell on the counter in quite the same way.