Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Hot temper and cold pizza

Last night we decided to order something that was unthinkable for me growing up in south Mumbai in the socialist 70s.  We called on the phone and asked for pizza.

Rephrase.  Sheba had the super idea to augment supper with a bit of pizazz - and so I checked things out and gave the magic call. 

The folks in the Bangalore call centre took the order, reminded me of the price that I would be forking out, thanked me for choosing their company (hint: two words and the last one is German for 'hat'), and told me that it would be there by 10 PM. 

So when I got a call at 9.50 that the delivery man was down-stairs, I went out so that he would not ring the bell and disturb Yohan who was trying to get to sleep. 

And then I realised that he had made some kind of mistake.  He was in a wrong building.  No lift was moving up to bring pizza to us.

At 10 PM I called the Bangalore wallahs to inform that our pizza had not arrived yet.  They told me to call the local shop.  I was not in a happy mood by now.

Then I saw the lift light go on.  The pizza was coming up.  The delivery man soon was opening the door with his burden.  A mistake in the address - one that had been done on an earlier order (A4 sounds like 84).  

When I mentioned that we were outside the 30 min guarantee delivery, and that we would be having a free pizza now, he baulked.   A call to his boss.  Boss said that the delivery man had arrived at the base of the building in time.  I told him that the phone-wallahs had said it would come by 10 PM.

The volume of our conversation was now getting louder.  The joy of the order was draining fast.   

I should not have even started into the argument.  If a company doesn't keep its word, well, then it doesn't.  My spleen won't help.

20 mins later.  A few more fruitless calls to the store.  Stale mate.  Dug in.  Got out the cash.  Gave it to the man.

A nice cold pizza was waiting.   We microwaved the thing.

Sadly, my temper was the only thing hot for a while.  Even when I looked back with regret at my loose tongue and bright red face, I found myself walking in my mind along silly streets. "How about giving the Bangalore wallahs a call and telling them that I would write about all of this on the blog?  What if it went viral and they have to send some corporate types to mollify me?"  Astoundingly, I even wondered about how much they would be willing to pay me...  A kind of internal black-mail being played out in my mind.

Where do such thoughts come from?  How fragile is our goodness, how quick the old nature emerges - cloaked in self-pity and parody of 'justice.'

And so 24 hours later, and a number of prayers later, here is my mea culpa:  there is still much anger that my Lord Jesus must tame.  

We learned at the church camp that we are to rejoice in suffering, because suffering produces perseverance, perseverance character, and character hope (check out Romans 5 - dynamite).   Our amazing speaker David Rendall shared that we can see the very character of Jesus being lived out in us through this process.  That we are being transformed from the inside-out...

Failing once again - with the family as spectators - doesn't make for much character showing of Christ in me.  But oh, the depths of His love and forgiveness.  Even for silly-balding-middle-aged-men who are loved by Him despite their tempers.   Work in progress.  Blessed Savior.

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