on the magic of christianity.

I finally got angry at a customer.

It's a long story which my family and friends have heard in full, but for you, I will condense it and simply say: There are better ways to be a Christian than by creating a scene in a bookstore over the word "magic." 

Oh, you want the full story? 

Fine. 

A jolly-looking lady with a drugstore gift wrap bow in her hair came into the store on the busiest day we've had all year. She was looking for a Bernstein Bears book, bless her heart, and it was out of print. She was understandably disappointed and in need of a baby shower gift, so I directed her to some books I thought would be appropriate. 

She was having none of it, though, instead insistent she needed a "Christian" book. 

[Insert my own personal angry tirade on the definition of "Christian" here.]

We don't carry what most people mean when they say "Christian books," but I suggested three of my favorite titles: On the Night You Were Born, The Giving Tree, and The Velveteen Rabbit. These books, I told the customer, weren't necessarily "Christian," but they are certainly Christian-themed, full of love and grace and truth. 

I left to clean up the mess she'd made in her wake, another source of my frustration. If you are going to loudly proclaim the name Christian in a public arena, please, do me this one favor: Put things back where they go. Leave a place better than when you found it. It's the simplest act, but so noticeably different.

As I was scurrying around putting back the books from her reject pile, I heard the loud slam of a book being shut.

"I don't do magic," the customer said with disdain. She had a Santa shirt on and a bow in her hair, so I'm a little confused as to what she thinks magic is, exactly, because if anything is magic, it's Santa. I approached her cautiously (as I do most irrational people). 

"I'm sorry?"

"This book has magic in it. I don't do magic." 

On the Night You Were Born sat forlornly on the table where it had been slammed shut, destined to be a part of this woman's ever-growing reject pile. I knew polar bears danced in On the Night You Were Born, but I was a little surprised this woman was taking her tirade against magic so far. I gently pushed her to another section of the store, and when it was said and done, she picked out a zebra stuffed animal and a copy of Gary Chapman's The Five Love Languages of Children. 

Mission accomplished. 

As I was wrapping her shower gift, though, I realized something else was amiss. She just looked so... perturbed. I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong -- our gift wrap process consists of colored tissue paper and gift tags, nothing super-complicated -- so I just went about my business, tying bows and fluffing ribbon. 

I swiped her credit card and wished her a lovely day before she looked at me and asked for a pair of scissors. I handed them over, still unsure what was going on. As she fiddled with the front of her bag, it hit me. 

Our everyday gift tags feature a quote from Stephen King's On Writing: "Book are a uniquely portable magic."

The line of customers had grown, but the woman snipped angrily away at the gift tag, cutting off the offensive part while repeating, aloud, the mantra she'd spoken since she'd slammed shut On the Night You Were Born: "We don't do magic."

I apologized profusely -- "I would have been happy to wrap your gift without a tag!" -- before she plonked down the scissors, grabbed her bag, and proudly made her way to the front door. I'd never seen someone so utterly pleased with themselves over causing a scene. 

I was absolutely livid. 

In the grand scheme, I'm sure it's a small thing, and I'm a little surprised at my overall reaction. Plenty of quirky, frustrating customers come in on a daily basis. Some ask to borrow books for a class; others let their children ransack the store with a hammer. (A story for another day.) Mostly, though, those are the stories I laugh about. People are just so darn interesting; I can't be angry because I'm too busy trying to remember it all. I want to be able to share the stories later.

This, I guess, hit a nerve. I'm always wary when the term "Christian" is thrown around as an adjective, and nothing annoys me more than when a very public Christian proceeds to act in a manner so unlike the manner of the Christ I know. And although I want to respect others for their beliefs, I firmly believe this woman could have quietly and graciously asked for a different gift tag. She could have put her discarded books back on the shelves. She could have simply selected another book without launching into her diatribe. 

Now, too, I work in a place where I am very much in the minority, and I want so desperately to live my life in a way that shows love and kindness and respect. I want to change the attitudes and perceptions about believers in my current business, and I feel like this woman -- with her tacky Christmas bow and her inability to differentiate between connotation and denotation -- proved them all right. 

It's tough sometimes, to be a Christian in a world where the term can be associated with so many different things and ideologies. I feel like I constantly need to apologize, need to let people know the Jesus they've just seen isn't the Jesus I know.

But then there are other times, too, when I am so utterly grateful for fellow believers, for the joy and the encouragement they bring to my life, and I know: Not all is lost.

Christianity, I think, is its own form of magic, full of myth and imagery and paradox and quirky, complex characters who are just as broken as the world they're called to serve.

I think that's why I got so angry. I serve a God who creates magic every day, who in the very movement of trees and the breaths that I take proves He is creative and majestic and so incredibly good. 

I don't want to be angry anymore. It's silly to hold onto something too long, so I'll let this go, file it away in the growing folder of "things that get my panties in a twist." But I do want to remember why it made me angry. No matter where you stand on things like magic and mystery and myth, I think we can all agree that sometimes, it's the smaller things that matter most. And last Saturday, that woman could have done so many quiet things to better represent her Savior. She could have put her rejected books back where they belonged. She could have asked for a wrapped gift without a tag. She could have looked on her own for what she needed.

She could have been gracious and kind, and in so doing, she would have represented the magic of the season and the magic of the Savior... all without uttering a word.