I graduated high school on a beautiful Saturday night in May of 1992. The following Monday I reported for duty, 8am, at Mickan Motor and Implement Company in Walburg, Texas. Mickan's is the local car garage, gas station, tire sales & service shop, and tractor repair place. It's also a hang-out for old timers - the men, not the pocket knives, although we sold those as well (the knives, not the men) - to tell stories over a cool one at the end of the day.
Mr. Mickan, the owner, gave me my first job. My very first task was driving a push broom, sweeping under shelves and around stacks of stuff, but it was my second task that has forever massaged my name into the tender undersides of three generations of Mickan feet: I was on sticker burr patrol. Armed with an old hunting knife and a 5 gallon bucket, I coursed the acre-sized yard, stalking and digging out sticker burrs like I was auditioning for The Hurt Locker. My diligence paid off. Only now, 25 years later, have a couple of sticker burrs appeared. Too bad: the warranty expired last summer.
While my theological education came in the seminary classroom and parish, working for Mr. Mickan taught me three important things about ministry that the Seminary just didn't prepare me for.
I learned to get dirty. I went home every night an absolutely smelly, filthy mess. Dirt, oil and grease were part of the daily pallet of blacks and browns that spread across my jeans and shirts. Dirt was always present - so, to do the job right you got dirty. This is true of ministry, albeit more of a figurative dirt. Ministry with people is dirty work: broken marriages, shattered families, unemployment, suicide of loved ones, death of children...it's messy business. A pastor cannot be timid - although he better be patient and careful - when entering into Satan's pain-filled cacophony armed only with God's Word, His Spirit, and prayer. Pastors get dirty when working with couples on the verge of divorce, or teens dabbling in the occult, and at the bedside of a dying man. It's dirty, but necessary, work so that the living water of Christ's words wash the dirt away. I learned to not be afraid to get dirty from Mr. Mickan.
I learned how to listen as the old timers told their stories. Good ol' boys like Martin, Bud, Gus, Harry, Irvin and Mr. Mickan himself would sit in the breezeway and talk. If I wasn't busy, I would sit with them. God blessed me with the good sense to just be quiet, so I listened. More than that, I learned to listen between the words to hear what he was really saying. It wasn't so much a story about gardening, for example, as it was remembering how his wife made pickles...and he only had one jar left since she passed on last spring, so he wasn't sure if he could plant cucumbers again or not. That ability to listen and discern has served me well, over the years - sometimes it's what's not being said that's most important. I learned to sit down and listen, not be in a hurry, and to get the full story. Also, I learned that just because I've heard the story once or twice before, it doesn't really hurt to listen again. This is especially true of shut-ins or people who don't get many visitors. They appreciate simply having a listening audience. I learned to listen from Mr. Mickan.
I also learned that mistakes will happen, but when they happen it's best to admit it and learn from it so it doesn't happen again. Pete, a tough-as-old-saddle-leather customer came to the shop to get a new set of tires. As he chewed his cigar down from a nub to a stub, I finished installing the tires on his truck, put the lug nuts on, set the truck down, reported the job finished and that I was heading home to lunch. I had barely gotten home when the phone rang - it was Mr. Mickan wanting to know if I had forgotten to put the hubcaps back on this fellow's truck, since there were 4 sets sitting where the truck had been. Instantly, I knew that not only did I forget the hub caps, I also failed to use an air gun to snug the lug nuts - they were only finger tight! I told Mr. Mickan my mistake. As I was quickly driving back to the shop, in the meantime Pete had returned as well, his truck wobbling and jerking from wheels just barely hanging onto the hubs. My mistake cost the shop four sets of lugs and nuts and the labor to install them. The rims were salvageable. Most important, other than eating the rest of his cigar in anger, the customer was fine. My mistake didn't cause any permanent harm. While we can joke about it now, Mr. Mickan told me later that day that had I lied or tried to cover up my mistake when he called, I would have been fired immediately. Instead, having admitted my mistake, he gave me another chance. In the ministry, this is called confession. I've made plenty of mistakes - some were accidents, some were outright sins against others - in my ministry. It's not easy, or comfortable, or enjoyable to confess my errors. But, with deep humility and in the hope of a shower of grace, I strive to admit and confess when I am wrong. I learned to confess from Mr. Mickan. (And, very gratefully, I learned about receiving mercy. I did not get what I deserved; instead, I was forgiven my mistake and given a second chance that stretched to four more summers of employment.)
I learned other things about being a faithful employee, treating a customer fairly, honoring the boss's authority, and doing the best one can. It was hard work, hit work, and sometimes dangerous work but I loved it all and I loved the Mickan family, most especially Mr. Mickan. Mr. Mickan is retired now, but he's still around the place. If you're able, and he's there and in the mood, ask him to tell you a story. Sit down, slow down a notch or two, and learn to listen.
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