By Ashlie Miller
It’s a common mistake, one you have likely experienced yourself: accidentally leaving an item you purchased at the checkout or in the buggy at the store. Usually, you can retrieve it without issue, and a sympathetic employee assures you that it happens often. Imagine my surprise recently at one of those not-really-a-dollar stores when I was met with a third degree and doubt about my story over a $1.50 item that had been left behind. Thankfully, the manager remedied the situation. Even though I was not to blame and my reputation matters little at a store where customers are no longer remembered by name, it still bothered me for several hours that my words were not believed. It reminded me of an episode that occurred several years ago.
As a young adult, I was once falsely accused and chased down with accusations. (Trust me, it sounds more dramatic than it was.) One evening, I went to visit a slightly older friend with young children, who would often let me hang out and either help with the kids or chat with her. I thrived in a setting that also gave me some mentoring. I offered to pick up anything she needed on my way. Young moms often find that a blessing! My friend lived in Rockwell on a stretch of road with nothing more than a one-stop gas station. She needed bread, likely for some essential PB&Js for the boys. I may not have had much as a college student, but picking up gas station bread, I could do. I went in, picked up a loaf, and made my way past a couple of old-timers talking about the weather before paying the cashier. I departed a couple of miles down the road to my friend’s, blissfully unaware that I was being hunted like a felon.
As I pulled in, I heard a rumble on the gravel road as a woman yelled, “Did you forget something?” I recognized her as the clerk behind the counter. I held up my bread, wondering, “Is she making sure I got my bread with a tone that doesn’t match her concern?” I was bewildered. “The gas you forgot to pay for!” she retorted. I tilted my head quizzically. “But I didn’t even pull up to a pump? I came for bread.” Among the commotion, my friend hastened outside to defend my character. However, the woman assured me that a couple of witnesses (those old-timers) saw me pull off with the gas. I asked her how much I was accused of stealing. I wasn’t quite ready to show her my hand – a newer compact car with a gas gauge indicating less than a quarter-tank. These were the days when gas may have been cheap, but working college students could live off a quarter tank until absolutely necessary to fill up. She said it was a full tank’s worth, but when I offered to let her see my gas gauge, she declined and, without so much as an apology for the chase and false accusation, sped off.
To say my adrenaline was lit is an understatement. Do I call the police for that? Surely not. Do I need to clear my reputation at a place where I did nothing wrong and didn’t usually frequent for gas anyway? Ah, the truth revealed, and the slice of humble pie for the employee would have to be enough. Even though it was inconsequential, it still felt pretty horrible! Why do false accusations, even over small things, bother us so badly? Could it be that deep down we were designed to long for truth and justice?
I am grateful, though, for experiences like those that have helped me pray for others and think about judging those in much more dire situations. I can slowly and deliberately consider: Was I there? Even if I was, could I have been distracted and not truly present? Is the information factual or colored with emotions and clickbait? Was I having a bad day when I thought I witnessed something? Were they? Am I quick to lean into gossip cloaked in a “this just in” post?
Lord, help me to slow my roll, my scroll, and my hasty judgments! Help me to remember truth wrapped in mercy and grace!
