Dada Pep-uh

Carla’s parents had stopped by and we were enjoying their company. When lunch time rolled around, I suggested one of my favorite meals: Boars-Head subs from the Publix Deli. (Now for those of you who are not from the south, “Boar’s Head” is a brand of deli meat. No, I was not eating an actual boar’s head on my sandwich.)

It wasn’t long until I had listed everyone’s order and placed the call. I then sat eagerly watching the clock until it was time to pick up the sandwiches. I jumped in the car and zoomed to the local Publix.

In typical man fashion, I wasted no time in finding a parking spot and walking directly to the deli counter. The plan was simple: pick up the subs, walk to the checkout, pay, drive home, and then eat until every tasty morsel was but a delicious memory. That was the plan. That is, until the woman behind the counter opened her mouth.

What came out resembled English, but in a dialect and accent I was unaccustomed to. In vain hopes that she was asking what I wanted, I pretended I understood her and replied, “I’m here to pick up my order.”

The look on her face declared that she understood me about as well as I had just understood her. At first I miss-read her expression and feared that I had called my order in to the wrong store, and that my subs were across town. Hoping beyond hope, and fairly sure I’d checked the address before I called, I volunteered, “yeah, I ordered them a little while ago, there should be five or six of them.”

Like the person who makes an obvious show of looking, but doesn’t expect to find anything, she opened the refrigerator to appease me. Much to her surprise, she pulled out an order ticket and then proceeded to pass my subs over the counter.

After I loaded the last sub into my arms like a man carrying logs for a fire, the woman looked up and pointed at something behind me. “Youget fo dada pep-uh.”

“What?” I replied, honestly not understanding a word she said.

“You like dada pep-uh? Youget fo dada pep-uh. Free dada pep-uh,” she said holding up four fingers.

Looking in the direction she pointed, I saw the display of Dr Pepper’s. It seemed that there was a promotion going: buy a sub, get a free two liter bottle of Dr Pepper. I had apparently earned four. I quickly glanced over the rack and realized there were no regular Dr Peppers available. Only diet remained. I shrugged casually, “Oh well, maybe next time,” and began to turn for the checkout lanes.

This woman wouldn’t let me go. She came out from behind the counter, “I hep you,” she volunteered seeing that my arms were loaded down. Walking over to the display she offered, “Diet Dada Pep-uh?” I tried to explain nicely that my wife and I don’t drink diet sodas, but she wouldn’t be deterred. She then led me clear across the store to the soda isle to find me four regular Dr Peppers.

Arriving in the isle we found the same problem we had at the first display, several diets but no regulars. Once again she offered, “Diet Dada Pep-uh? Youget fo Dada Pep-uh’s.” Again I explained that I didn’t want a Diet Dr Pepper.

After I finished, she stood there staring at me like I had just spoken in Chinese. In her mind, she couldn’t conceive that I didn’t want to take these four Diet Dr Peppers. Didn’t I understand that they were FREE!?

Just wanting to get to the counter so I could pay for my subs and go home, I suggested we look one more time. We proceeded to a final display by the check-out lanes and, much to my dismay, found once again shelves stocked full of Diet Dr Pepper, but not one regular. Once again the woman offered, “Diet Dada Pep-uh?”

Worn down, I finally relented. “Sure. I’ll take two of them,” I replied. Maybe my mom will like them, I reasoned.

Immediately her words cut through my thoughts, “No. No. Fo Dada Pep-uh’s. Fo Dada Pep-uh’s,” she said holding up four fingers. Defeated I shrugged, “Okay. I’ll take four Diet Dr Peppers.”

She loaded two into my, already heavy laden, arms and then carried the other two and placed them on the lane. Smiling broadly she said goodbye, and headed back to the deli, proud of her customer service. She had helped this poor ignorant young man who couldn’t understand that he got four free Diet Dr Peppers.

I paid for my sandwiches and proceeded home. On the way, I chuckled to myself over this persistent woman who wouldn’t let me leave without the free sodas, I really didn’t want. As I did, it wasn’t long before a question rocked my spirit. How often do we do that to God?
We hear the voice of Christ quietly whisper in our hearts, “Be healed. It’s free. I paid for it. It’s yours, just take it.” “Oh no, God,” we reply, “I deserve this sickness. I deserve this pain. You’re trying to teach me something through it.”

Or He whispers, “Be blessed. Be blessed in the city. Be blessed in the country. Let your finances be blessed.” “Oh no, God,” we reply, “I don’t want to have money. I’m afraid it will cause me to stumble, cause me to turn from you.”

Or for others He whispers, “Be saved. I’ve paid the price for your salvation. Just turn your life over to me.” “Oh no,” they reply “I’m not good enough. You don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t deserve your sacrifice.”

How many times has God looked down on us, like the woman at Publix looked at me…
“Doesn’t he understand that it’s Free?”