Jack tossed the papers on my desk -- his eyebrows knit into
a straight line as he glared at me.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
He jabbed a finger at the proposal. "Next time you want to
change anything, ask me first," he said, turning on his heels and leaving me stewing in anger.
How dare he treat me like that, I thought. I had changed one
long sentence, and corrected grammar -- something I thought
I was paid to do. It's not that I hadn't been warned. The other women, who had served in my place before me, called him names I couldn't repeat. One co-worker took me aside the first day.
"He's personally responsible for two different secretaries
leaving the firm," she whispered.
As the weeks went by, I grew to despise Jack. It was against
everything I believed in -- turn the other cheek and love your enemies. But Jack quickly slapped a verbal insult on any cheek turned his way. I prayed about it, but to be honest, I wanted to put him in his place, not love him.
One day, another of his episodes left me in tears. I stormed
into his office, prepared to lose my job if needed, but not
before I let the man know how I felt. I opened the door and
Jack glanced up.
"What?" he said abruptly.
Suddenly I knew what I had to do. After all, he deserved it.
I sat across from him.
"Jack, the way you've been treating me is wrong. I've never
had anyone speak to me that way. As a professional, it's
wrong, and it's wrong for me to allow it to continue," I said.
Jack snickered nervously and leaned back in his chair. I
closed my eyes briefly. God help me, I prayed.
"I want to make you a promise. I will be a friend," I said.
"I will treat you as you deserve to be treated, with respect
and kindness. You deserve that," I said. "Everybody does."
I slipped out of the chair and closed the door behind me.
Jack avoided me the rest of the week. Proposals, specs,
and letters appeared on my desk while I was at lunch, and
the corrected versions were not seen again. I brought
cookies to the office one day and left a batch on Jack's
desk. Another day I left a note. "Hope your day is going
great," it read.
Over the next few weeks, Jack reappeared. He was reserved,
but there were no other episodes. Co-workers cornered me
in the break room.
"Guess you got to Jack," they said. "You must have told
him off good."
I shook my head. "Jack and I are becoming friends," I said
in faith. I refused to talk about him. Every time I saw Jack
in the hall, I smiled at him. After all, that's what friends
do.
One year after our "talk", I discovered I had breast cancer.
I was 32, the mother of three beautiful young children, and
scared. The cancer had metastasized to my lymph nodes
and the statistics were not great for long-term survival.
After surgery, I visited with friends and loved ones who
tried to find the right words to say. No one knew what to
say. Many said the wrong things . Others wept, and I tried
to encourage them. I clung to hope.
The last day of my hospital stay, the door darkened and Jack
stood awkwardly on the threshold. I waved him in with a smile
and he walked over to my bed and, without a word, placed a
bundle beside me. Inside lay several bulbs.
"Tulips," he said.
I smiled, not understanding.
He cleared his throat. "If you plant them when you get home,
they'll come up next spring." He shuffled his feet. "I just
wanted you to know that I think you'll be there to see them
when they come up."
Tears clouded my eyes and I reached out my hand. "Thank
you," I whispered.
Jack grasped my hand and gruffly replied, "You're welcome.
You can't see it now, but next spring you'll see the colors
I picked out for you." He turned and left without another
word.
I have seen those red and white striped tulips push through
the soil every spring for over ten years now. In fact, this
September the doctor will declare me cured.
I've seen my children graduate from high school and enter
college. In a moment when I prayed for just the right word,
a man with very few words said all the right things.