Thursday, January 19, 2006
Grace Triumphant 004
March 3, 2005
Greg says he's not mad at me, but he's busy doing other things. I don't know what's gotten into him, but this isn't the time to ask.
Still, I want to write about what happened after college. I learned the hard way that salvation and sanctification alike are born of the grace of God. And here's how:
By the time I was 24, I was an assistant Buyer at Simpsons. I worked "upstairs," in the small office suite behind the retail floor. I had a savings plan and a pension plan and knew people who had worked at the store for 30 years. I traveled several times a year, attended shows, meetings, and seminars.
Asheville was building up, and even Black Mountain had increased its population. South of us, Greenville's metro area was beefing up for a new BMW plant, and Michelin and BMW had both donated huge grants to the local technical college to spruce up its academics. Up in the mountains, we caught some of the overflow of the beneficence. More tourists and visitors came for weekends.
We launched successful campaigns to bring visitors into the store, and the Ad department sent newspaper inserts as far away as Greenville and Spartanburg to coax buyers to come to the mountains for weekend junkets.
In January of that year, I thought Simpsons was good for another 50 years at least.
But then the Blue Laws were, once and for all, revoked.
Everybody had been buzzing about it for months. The Carolinas subscribed to exceptionally strict Blue Laws, forbidding stores to be open on Sunday. These lasted for decades after the stores in other states started to open on Sunday. Local people challenged the laws continually until at last the state dropped them back to a local matter.
Pressure built within our community for the malls and stores to open on Sundays. As a community we were losing money, they said, because customers were going to other cities for weekend jaunts where they could shop both Saturday and Sunday. Gatlinburg, not far to the west, had hotels and outlet stores. Greenville and Spartanburg were modernizing as well and offering bed and breakfasts with access to outlets.
Simpsons had a huge churchgoing work force. We didn't want to be open on Sunday. Some people argued for the Sabbath, but others argued on a more modern basis for the practical necessity of letting people worship.
Compromises were proposed. The malls would not open until 1:00, allowing Christians to worship, and nobody could be forced to work on Sunday of it violated their conscience, nor could they be fired.
The news cameras invaded the stores; there were flame wars on the editorial pages of the newspapers long before they were invented on the internet.
In executive staff meetings, for weeks, the issue came up at every meeting.
"This store has always honored the Sabbath," Mr Simpson said on the first meeting of the new year, when we went into our customary slump and sell off period. "I am not ready to abandon my thanksgiving to God merely because of bad press and a few dollars."
He stood at the head of the huge exec table, crowded with buyers, accounting staff, and others. The staff was so numerous that it was standing room only, and men in ties and jackets, women in business outfits and heels, stood against the walls. Seating at the table was full.
"This is all well and good," Abraham Stultz, one of the most senior buyers and a tremendous friend to Mr. Simpson said. He had a place at the table. "But we're not all Christians, you know. And we Jewish people, we invented the Sabbath!"
The comment sounded light hearted, but it stunned Mr. Simpson. "Abraham, I have never asked you to work on a Saturday," Mr. Simpson said.
"No, of course not. But I come in when I have to, Robert," he said. "Saturday or not. And you know that I will if I have to. Don't excuse good people from the same responsibility. The ox is in the ditch as you say. You may have to ask people to work for five hours on a Sunday."
Mr Simpson shook his head. "It hasn't come to that. We had an extremely profitable Christmas." And several people nodded.
But Stultz, who had worked at the store as a young man when Mr. Simpson's own father had been living and managed the place, said, "You are living on the plateau. It's beautiful and perfect up here. Now. But look higher. Look around. We're hedged in, and we can't get out."
Nobody understood what he was saying. He looked around the table at all of us. Abraham Stultz had a high forehead, with long wrinkles across it, and the last vestiges of short, wavy hair at his temples and around his head like a tonsure.
"Retail is not about what happens now, young people," he told us. Back in those days, senior management often addressed the whole group that way. "Retail is about two years from now. We are in very great danger, as a business unit. Bankruptcy is staring us in the face."
Several people gasped. We were rolling in money, I thought, with more customers coming in than ever before.
One or two people murmured disagreement loudly enough for Mr. Stultz to hear. But this was never tolerated at Simpsons. "Come to order," Mr. Simpson said. I raised my hand, and at his nod I stood up.
"Mr. Stultz," I said. "I know you're right to warn us of the future, but even the retail experts are saying that we're in a sellers market right now and it will speed up again by summer sales. Can you point us to some type of indicator or documentation that supports what you're saying?"
I sat down. He inclined his head to me and didn't bother to stand, but he never did. "Miss Jovian, you always ask the best questions. I wish that I could open a report that says 'In two years the bottom will fall out.' I can't, young lady. I base my conclusions on two things: an advantage that other stores will have to acquire our customers through Sunday sales if we do not stay competitive; and the emergence of new competitors. We have been guilty of standing still in an evolving marketplace."
All eyes turned to Mr. Simpson. He looked truly troubled and even hurt that Mr. Stultz had been so candid in an open meeting. But he said, "Abraham, your opinion is always valuable. I'll take everything you say into account, and I want to meet with you directly after this. But I cannot violate my conscience or ask my people to violate theirs on a danger that is two years away. We may find another way."
The meeting progressed to other topics from there. But later I had lunch with Anita, one of the floor managers, and her friend Helen. Each was old enough to be my mother. Helen may have qualified for grandmother. I'd known Anita since my first day as a manager trainee. She was a Christian, a Southern Baptist, and she was praying we would stay closed on Sundays.
They were both curious about the meeting. I didn't tell them everything, but I did tell them of Abraham Stultz's prediction.
"Well he's Jewish, so he doesn't understand," Helen said.
Anita, her large brown eyes fixed on her coffee, added gently, "He told me once he liked working with such a religious work force. He came out of New York as a young man, and it was already horrible up there."
"But God can keep this store in business," Helen told her. "We don't have to worry like other folks do."
Anita shot one glance, gentle, at her friend. She looked at me. "What do you think about what he said, Grace?"
"I don't know. I come from a long line of doomsayers," I told them. "I'm used to predictions of destruction that never come true."
"But?" Anita prompted me.
"Did you ever read the Laura Ingalls Wilder books?" I asked.
Anita nodded and Helen said, "My grandchildren read them."
"There's a scene at the beginning of The Long Winter, where an Indian comes into the general store and warns the towns people that a savage winter is coming, and they don't know what he's talking about."
"Did you think of that today?" Anita asked.
I nodded. "The Indian was proved right. I keep remembering that, but all the signs are good for the store right now."
"It's a good cautionary tale," Anita said. "We should pray for Mr. Simpson to have wisdom and foresight." She smiled at me: after years of rearing her own children and working nearly every week of her life, Anita still had beautiful eyes, unmarred by age. "Everything will work out for the best."
I nodded, and for the moment my fears were allayed.
|
Greg says he's not mad at me, but he's busy doing other things. I don't know what's gotten into him, but this isn't the time to ask.
Still, I want to write about what happened after college. I learned the hard way that salvation and sanctification alike are born of the grace of God. And here's how:
By the time I was 24, I was an assistant Buyer at Simpsons. I worked "upstairs," in the small office suite behind the retail floor. I had a savings plan and a pension plan and knew people who had worked at the store for 30 years. I traveled several times a year, attended shows, meetings, and seminars.
Asheville was building up, and even Black Mountain had increased its population. South of us, Greenville's metro area was beefing up for a new BMW plant, and Michelin and BMW had both donated huge grants to the local technical college to spruce up its academics. Up in the mountains, we caught some of the overflow of the beneficence. More tourists and visitors came for weekends.
We launched successful campaigns to bring visitors into the store, and the Ad department sent newspaper inserts as far away as Greenville and Spartanburg to coax buyers to come to the mountains for weekend junkets.
In January of that year, I thought Simpsons was good for another 50 years at least.
But then the Blue Laws were, once and for all, revoked.
Everybody had been buzzing about it for months. The Carolinas subscribed to exceptionally strict Blue Laws, forbidding stores to be open on Sunday. These lasted for decades after the stores in other states started to open on Sunday. Local people challenged the laws continually until at last the state dropped them back to a local matter.
Pressure built within our community for the malls and stores to open on Sundays. As a community we were losing money, they said, because customers were going to other cities for weekend jaunts where they could shop both Saturday and Sunday. Gatlinburg, not far to the west, had hotels and outlet stores. Greenville and Spartanburg were modernizing as well and offering bed and breakfasts with access to outlets.
Simpsons had a huge churchgoing work force. We didn't want to be open on Sunday. Some people argued for the Sabbath, but others argued on a more modern basis for the practical necessity of letting people worship.
Compromises were proposed. The malls would not open until 1:00, allowing Christians to worship, and nobody could be forced to work on Sunday of it violated their conscience, nor could they be fired.
The news cameras invaded the stores; there were flame wars on the editorial pages of the newspapers long before they were invented on the internet.
In executive staff meetings, for weeks, the issue came up at every meeting.
"This store has always honored the Sabbath," Mr Simpson said on the first meeting of the new year, when we went into our customary slump and sell off period. "I am not ready to abandon my thanksgiving to God merely because of bad press and a few dollars."
He stood at the head of the huge exec table, crowded with buyers, accounting staff, and others. The staff was so numerous that it was standing room only, and men in ties and jackets, women in business outfits and heels, stood against the walls. Seating at the table was full.
"This is all well and good," Abraham Stultz, one of the most senior buyers and a tremendous friend to Mr. Simpson said. He had a place at the table. "But we're not all Christians, you know. And we Jewish people, we invented the Sabbath!"
The comment sounded light hearted, but it stunned Mr. Simpson. "Abraham, I have never asked you to work on a Saturday," Mr. Simpson said.
"No, of course not. But I come in when I have to, Robert," he said. "Saturday or not. And you know that I will if I have to. Don't excuse good people from the same responsibility. The ox is in the ditch as you say. You may have to ask people to work for five hours on a Sunday."
Mr Simpson shook his head. "It hasn't come to that. We had an extremely profitable Christmas." And several people nodded.
But Stultz, who had worked at the store as a young man when Mr. Simpson's own father had been living and managed the place, said, "You are living on the plateau. It's beautiful and perfect up here. Now. But look higher. Look around. We're hedged in, and we can't get out."
Nobody understood what he was saying. He looked around the table at all of us. Abraham Stultz had a high forehead, with long wrinkles across it, and the last vestiges of short, wavy hair at his temples and around his head like a tonsure.
"Retail is not about what happens now, young people," he told us. Back in those days, senior management often addressed the whole group that way. "Retail is about two years from now. We are in very great danger, as a business unit. Bankruptcy is staring us in the face."
Several people gasped. We were rolling in money, I thought, with more customers coming in than ever before.
One or two people murmured disagreement loudly enough for Mr. Stultz to hear. But this was never tolerated at Simpsons. "Come to order," Mr. Simpson said. I raised my hand, and at his nod I stood up.
"Mr. Stultz," I said. "I know you're right to warn us of the future, but even the retail experts are saying that we're in a sellers market right now and it will speed up again by summer sales. Can you point us to some type of indicator or documentation that supports what you're saying?"
I sat down. He inclined his head to me and didn't bother to stand, but he never did. "Miss Jovian, you always ask the best questions. I wish that I could open a report that says 'In two years the bottom will fall out.' I can't, young lady. I base my conclusions on two things: an advantage that other stores will have to acquire our customers through Sunday sales if we do not stay competitive; and the emergence of new competitors. We have been guilty of standing still in an evolving marketplace."
All eyes turned to Mr. Simpson. He looked truly troubled and even hurt that Mr. Stultz had been so candid in an open meeting. But he said, "Abraham, your opinion is always valuable. I'll take everything you say into account, and I want to meet with you directly after this. But I cannot violate my conscience or ask my people to violate theirs on a danger that is two years away. We may find another way."
The meeting progressed to other topics from there. But later I had lunch with Anita, one of the floor managers, and her friend Helen. Each was old enough to be my mother. Helen may have qualified for grandmother. I'd known Anita since my first day as a manager trainee. She was a Christian, a Southern Baptist, and she was praying we would stay closed on Sundays.
They were both curious about the meeting. I didn't tell them everything, but I did tell them of Abraham Stultz's prediction.
"Well he's Jewish, so he doesn't understand," Helen said.
Anita, her large brown eyes fixed on her coffee, added gently, "He told me once he liked working with such a religious work force. He came out of New York as a young man, and it was already horrible up there."
"But God can keep this store in business," Helen told her. "We don't have to worry like other folks do."
Anita shot one glance, gentle, at her friend. She looked at me. "What do you think about what he said, Grace?"
"I don't know. I come from a long line of doomsayers," I told them. "I'm used to predictions of destruction that never come true."
"But?" Anita prompted me.
"Did you ever read the Laura Ingalls Wilder books?" I asked.
Anita nodded and Helen said, "My grandchildren read them."
"There's a scene at the beginning of The Long Winter, where an Indian comes into the general store and warns the towns people that a savage winter is coming, and they don't know what he's talking about."
"Did you think of that today?" Anita asked.
I nodded. "The Indian was proved right. I keep remembering that, but all the signs are good for the store right now."
"It's a good cautionary tale," Anita said. "We should pray for Mr. Simpson to have wisdom and foresight." She smiled at me: after years of rearing her own children and working nearly every week of her life, Anita still had beautiful eyes, unmarred by age. "Everything will work out for the best."
I nodded, and for the moment my fears were allayed.
