March 31: Being a Loser, Psalm 23, and Chef Salad

Well, I didn't win Employee of the Year.  That's no big surprise.  I sat at the table, with the twelve other Employees of the Month, making small talk, waiting to see who was going to take home the prize.  When I say small talk, I mean tiny, minuscule, grasping-at-straws-to-fill-the-silence talk.  We had to be polite.  We listened politely, ate politely, and applauded politely.  I, at least, was hoping for a piece of chicken and a baked potato to compensate for being runner-up (or runner-runner-runner-runner-runner-runner-runner-runner-runner-runner-runner up).  What I ended up with was chef's salad.



My lunch

I hate salad.  I pushed the lettuce around.  Picked out as much of the egg, ham, chicken, and cheese as possible.  I gnawed on a piece of broccoli.  When the gentleman running the Employee of the Year lunch announced, "We're going to have a healthy lunch," I knew I was in trouble.

Now, everyone knows I have a small problem with jealousy.  Tiny.  Minuscule.  I managed to look gracious and happy for the person who won.  He seemed nice and humble and genuinely surprised.  He also sings country music, which counts against him in my book.  Anyway, after he won, they kicked me out of my seat in front of the fireplace to get a picture of him for the company newsletter.  I didn't really have a lot of time to allow my full, jealous rage to take over.

Therefore, I decided to make it the topic of today's praise psalm.  I know I'm supposed to have humility.  I know the first shall be last, yadda, yadda, yadda.  I'm working on it.  Really I am.  It's hard to do with just a chef's salad in my stomach.

Pray for Saint Marty.  He needs it.

Psalm 23:  A Humble Prayer

Lord, teach me to be humble.

When I expect rare prime rib,

Give me overcooked chicken breast.

When I order raspberry cream torte,

Make me settle for sponge cake,

Twinkie.  I know I’m proud, Lord,

Think less of those who like rhyme

In poems, pity their children, spouses

For their ignorance, find the world

Somehow darker because Ogden Nash

Paired “stethoscope” with “laundry soap.”

Teach me to be humble, Lord.

If I’m the only nominee for the Nobel

Prize in Literature, let the Swedes

Forgo the award for lack of talent,

Review policies that allowed me

To offend their eyes with my words.

Lord, teach me what it’s like

For people to point, jeer at my skin-tight

Tee shirt, torn jeans, haul me off

To Jansen House with drunks,

Drag queens, meth addicts, force me

To scrounge in garbage for cans to return

So I can buy a copy of Best American Poetry,

Find out which writer of inferior,

Pardon me, superior verse has received

Recognition from the editor.

Teach me now, Lord, what’s really

Important:  healthy wife, healthy kids,

Food in fridge, a home, a job,

A raise, publications, a book deal,

The National Book Award, the Pulitzer,

Vacation home in the Hamptons,

Dinners with Bill, Hillary, their dog,

An occasional invite to the White House,

Buckingham, Versailles, the Vatican,

A private viewing of the Shroud of Turin,

A vision of the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ,

The power to cure cancer, AIDS, blindness.

Lord, teach me to be humble.  Please, Lord.  Amen.