Posts Tagged with parable

So often when we read the passage about the day laborers, we hear it from the perspective of those who were chosen first and we think about how unfair it is that others have recieved what we have been promised. So today, let us open our minds to hear the gospel message from the perspective of the ones who were chosen last…

My name is Carla. And I am a day laborer. Each and every single morning I get up at 4:30 and I try to find something in the pantry to feed my son. He is twelve years old. But paying for his school supplies and getting school clothes has been expensive this year, so breakfasts aren’t quite as filling as they used to be. I get breakfast started, and then I go and wake my son up. It’s early for him, but we’ve got to head out early in the morning if I want to have a chance for work today. Luckily, the Home Depot where I gather with others each day has a shelter that they have put up… and the bus that stops in front of the store will take my son to school. It isn’t the best arrangement in the world and I worry for him, but it’s the only option we have. So we head out together, hand in hand.

Every morning, this is my routine. On weekends, my son stays with his grandmother, but every weekday, we head here together. And we wait.

This particular morning, I was tired. I was tired of waiting for work. The economy is particularly hard this year. Sometimes we pass a newspaper amongst ourselves, but you don’t have to read the headlines to know that things are tough. The numbers of foreclosures and record low homes sales are just that, numbers – we can tell every morning that there is trouble because there are fewer contractors and construction crews coming around to hire us. The landscapers I worked for last summer have gone out of business. Work was never really steady before – but now, it’s almost nonexistent.

In the last six days, I have only been hired once. That day, a contractor stopped by and we painted the outside of a woman’s house. Eight hours of work, eighty dollars. I bought groceries that night, so that my son would have food for breakfast.

This morning, I was hopeful. I was hopeful that work will come today. The electricity bill is due tomorrow and I prayed that I would have money to pay it. The last time our electricity was cut off, we had to stay with my mother-in-law, in her cramped little apartment.

About six o’clock, a man pulled up in a pick-up truck and said he had work! It’s a bit early for harvest, but he said that his fields were ripe and ready and he needed some help – it would be a full days worth of work. Well, all of our hands shot up in the air – of course we all wanted this job. But he couldn’t take everyone. He took Sam, who is probably the strongest of all of us. He took Mark who is young and fit and honestly a good worker. He took a few others, and I couldn’t help but notice that they were the ones who always get chosen first. The ones who as kids were always picked first for the game of dodgeball. All of them were promised $150 for their work that day… and I could only dream of what that would do to help my family out. But the truck pulled away and I wasn’t on it. I looked down at my son who was sitting on the bench behind me, and was glad that he slept through my disappointment.

Perhaps all of our hopes got up by that one landowner because there was a good spirit among us for an hour or so. The bus was coming soon, so I gently woke my son up and walked him over to the stop and got him on the right bus. And I went back to waiting. Another hour ticked by, and the lot of us were still standing there. One car pulled up needing a skilled electrician – and so two people were chosen… but not me. My husband was amazing with his hands – he knew everything there was to know about wiring and building… He died of cancer two years ago – the medical costs ate up all of our savings and I have little skills. I stayed at home with our son. When my husband died, we lost the house. We lost everything. This is our life now.

Nine o’clock rolled around and I looked up to see that old blue pick-up truck roll back by our shelter. It was the first man again – the man with the field. He said he could use a few more… that they were finding there was more work than he thought. So he looked us over. I tried to stand up tall. I tried to wipe the tiredness from my eyes. He chose five from among us. But I wasn’t chosen. They hopped in the back of his truck and headed out to the field.

About noon, my stomach started to grumble, but I couldn’t leave- not when someone might come by any minute looking for workers. Often a contractor would come by over the lunch hour and hire people for the afternoon. And sure enough, I heard the rumble of an engine pulling up. It was the same blue pick-up truck, the same man looking out at us from the driver’s seat. “I need a few more,” he said – “I’ll pay you what is fair… you three – climb on in.” He wasn’t pointing at me. He was pointing at the three Vietnamese immigrants who were standing together to one side. They climbed in and the truck headed out.

As the afternoon went on, a few of us started to filter away. Hopes were down – there just wasn’t going to be any more work today. My son’s bus didn’t stop until about 4:30… I might as well wait that long, you never know, right?

Every time a car passed us, we stood in anxious anticipation. But many of them were just customers of the store trying to get out of the parking lot. No one was looking for workers. We stood anyways – the same up and down over and over again. About 3:00, I was amazed to see that same old blue pickup pull over to the shelter. He looked at all of us, almost with a look of pity, and hopped out. I have a bit more work – he said gently – I know it’s late, but I’ll pay you what is fair for the few hours that are left. There were seven of us left – but the truck was full of supplies and not all of us would fit. He took three.

At least I would get to wait for my son, I thought, trying to see the silver lining in all of this. But after five days of no work, the silver lining was dull and grey. I dreaded having to tell him yet again that there was no work today. I just wouldn’t be able to face him if we had to pack up a bag and move in with his grandma again. We can take care of ourselves, right mom? He had said the last time. I’m starting to think that it’s just not possible.

My son’s bus came and he hopped off and he looked around – I could tell he was hoping I wasn’t there. It wasn’t a long walk back to our apartment and he had made it countless times before. If I wasn’t there, it meant we would have a hot dinner tonight when I eventually made it back. But there I was. Under the shelter. He looked straight at me, and then turned to head up the street.

I wanted to run after him, to yell at him for disrespecting me like that, but I felt nothing but shame. Shame that I couldn’t support us. Shame that there wasn’t enough food in the cupboards. Shame that he saw me for what I truly was. Worthless. I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t face him. Not yet. And there were still a few others under the shelter – also dreading heading home with nothing in their hands. So I stood there and waited.

Not fifteen minutes went by, and I started to hear the familiar chug of an old engine. I figured that the farmer was starting to bring people back in from his field, so I thought nothing of it – but when the truck got closer – I realized it was empty. He slowly pulled up to the two of us who were left and leaned out the window. “Why have you been standing here all day?” he asked. It seemed to me like a dumb question – so I spouted back before I could bite my tongue – “Because no one hired us!” I looked away, not wanting to see his response. It seemed like a long three seconds – like a lifetime was passing by – and then he spoke again. “Hop in – I’ll take you out to the field.”

He didn’t say anything about pay – and it seemed ludicrous to go out and work when the sun would be setting in a few hours, but I looked at John next to me, John who only has three fingers on his left hand because of some construction accident a few years ago, and he shrugged. “C’mon,” he said, “at least we can feel like we have done something today.” So we climbed in the truck.

We got out to the field quickly. I was amazed at what I saw – bushels and bushels and bushels of the biggest grapes I had seen in my life. I was so eager to work that day I never stopped to ask what kind of fields the man had. And it didn’t matter, work was work. We hopped out and he pointed toward the bushel baskets – “all of them have to be loaded,” he said – just pitch in where you can.

With the whole lot of us, loading was quick work. We piled the baskets high in a nearby wagon, so that the tractor could take them to the processor. An hour went by before we knew it, and the job was done. The man who owned the fields gathered all of us up together and thanked us for our work. Then he called over to his foreman and handed him an envelope. Pay time.

The foreman called John and I up first and handed us each three crisp fifty dollar bills. My mouth dropped open and I began to stutter. “Umm, there must be some mistake,” I said – “This is too much money… we’ve only been working for an hour.”

“What did you get?” someone called out behind me, and I showed him the bills. But the foreman looked at us and simply called out, “Next.”

Group by group, the workers came forward, amazed at what we had received and I could tell, they were expectantly hoping for more. But by the time that first group – the six who were picked early that morning – we began to realize that he was paying everyone the same amount. Everyone walked away with $150 – the amount that first group had been promised.

Sam, the big guy, was the first to speak up. “Hey, now what’s going on here?!” he yelled – “how come all of those guys got the same amount as we did – we’ve been working here, slaving in the sun all day long?”

I was sort of wondering the same thing… To be honest, I would have been grateful for just five or ten dollars – something to take home, something to feed my son with.

The owner of the vineyard came forward from where he was leaning against his old blue truck – “Am I doing you any wrong,” he asked? “Didn’t I promise you $150 this morning? You have been given what you were promised, but I choose to give to even these last ones the same amount – am I not allowed to be generous with my money?”

I felt undeserving, I felt unworthy, but I clutched those bills tightly in my hand the whole way back. I was nothing but grateful. Grateful for the hope this brought to my family. Grateful for the chance to work at all. Grateful that I would be able to go home to my son and bring something to the table for dinner. Grateful that we would be able to make it another month with the electricity. Simply grateful.

I bought a hot loaf of fresh bread and a couple cans of beef stew to take home – the rest would be saved for the bills. My son was surprised when I walked in carrying a grocery bag, he looked up and for the first time in a week, I saw him smile.

I warmed the stew up on the stove and set the table before us, bowls of stew for each and the loaf of bread set proudly in the middle of the table. My son came over and I started to say grace like I usually do – with the Lord’s Prayer.

Our Father, who art in heaven… hallowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread…” I paused. For half a second I paused and realized what I was saying. The warm yeasty smell of the bread between us rose up and filled my senses. “Give us this day our daily bread…” I began again – but couldn’t go on. My eyes watered up and my son squeezed my hand and finished the prayer for the both of us.

That prayer had always seemed so simple, so meaningless – like something that we just said because we were supposed to until tonight. As my son dug into his stew and ripped a chunk off of the bread, I started to think about what that landowner did for me today. While he taught us all something about money and being generous – while he taught me today that even being one of the last ones chosen, that I was still worthy of that money, he also showed me what God’s grace can look like.

I thought about the Hebrew people out there in the desert, wandering around… completely dependent upon God. And I thought about how anxious they were, how scared, so scared in fact that they forgot about all of the miraculous and amazing ways that God had rescued them from Egypt. But God took care of them. God promised that he would provide, and each day gave them the gift of heavenly manna – their daily bread.

Did they deserve it? Probably not after all of their grumbling. Did I deserve this feast tonight? Definitely not. But what I realized today is that God doesn’t give us what we deserve – God gives us what we need. They didn’t have to be rescued and I didn’t have to be picked today… but I was and they were – and that in and of itself is something to be grateful for.

And I’m not talking about just money. I’m not talking about just things. I’m talking about life itself. Give us this day our daily bread – give us this day our daily dose of grace. Grace doesn’t come in sizes. I don’t get less grace because I’m a widowed single mother who doesn’t make it to church every Sunday. That pastor down the street who wears the fancy stole doesn’t get more because he stands up to preach every Sunday. I don’t get less grace for all the times I have doubted or decided to rely on my self rather than God. And those people who have believed since they were infants don’t get more. Grace can’t be measured. It is simply given and given abundantly.

Tonight I tucked my son into bed and I read my nightly devotions. Some nights I don’t quite get to them because the day has been too long… but tonight, I felt like I wanted to spend time in God’s word, to simply spend time with God as a sign of my gratefulness. I opened up the bible to Philippians: Paul wrote there, “For me, living is Christ and dying is gain. If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me…. I know that I will remain and continue with all of you for your progress and joy in faith, so that I may share abundantly in your boasting in Christ Jesus… only live your life in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ – stand firm in one spirit, strive side by side with one mind for the faith of the gospel, and don’t be intimidated by your opponents.”

Life in the flesh means fruitful labor – it means working every day to live a life worth of the gospel of Christ.