Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Grace Triumphant 008
March 7, 2005
And in the streets, the children screamed;
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
The war for Sundays continued. Within a single month, every competitor of Simpsons opened its doors on Sundays from 1:00 PM to 6:00 PM. We alone remained closed.
And profits dropped. But Simpsons was not a public business. It was owned by the Simpson family. They governed decisions by means of their hand-picked board, mostly family members and a few financial officers who handled loans for the store.
The first losses in profits were determined to be within a range that didn't threaten the store. In fact, it was possible that the losses were temporary. Once the novelty of shopping on Sunday wore off, people might just ignore the department stores on the Lord's Day. Or the expense of staying open might outweigh earnings.
But as the weeks went by and the second quarter started, it became evident that the franchise stores were prospering from opening on Sunday, however marginally, during the slowest quarter of the year. At an executive meeting in April, Mr. Simpson announced in a staff meeting that I had been promoted to Buyer. Everybody applauded, and then we got down to business.
Abraham Stultz spoke right away, as everybody knew he would.
"These profits will expand for the competition as the sales growth expands over the year, Robert," he said to Mr. Simpson. "We are losing ground and sliding down a slippery slope."
"Profits are down only two percent from last year this time," Mr. Simpson said.
"In a year when we should be five percent ahead! We're seven points in the negative for earnings expectations. And you know that!"
The room was crowded, and at this clear rebuke of the head of the store, you could almost hear everybody draw in a breath and hold it. Nobody ever spoke this way in meetings with senior staff present.
"I don't have reason enough to violate my conscience on this, Abraham," Mr. Simpson told him. "Or to ask my people to violate their consciences."
"Listen to me Robert; you have created a nice community of working people here," Mr. Stultz said. "Think about what you might be doing to them if you don't ask them to work on Sunday. If the store slips in sales, we will have to lay people off. And this community of people will be broken up. You have a good business and happy workers. You have to adapt to the times."
"As always you raise excellent points for consideration," Mr. Simpson said. "Thank you. Let's move on."
But it was no surprise, later in the week, when Mr. Simpson scheduled meetings, in groups of 25, with all the staff from the retail floor to poll them on their opinions about working on Sunday.
Anita kept me updated about the people out on the floor. Most preferred not to work on Sunday but offered no real objection if the store chose a seven day schedule. There was a strong but small minority who opposed breaking the Sunday Sabbath. But the store's most experienced floor managers were among that minority. They were Sunday School teachers and youth workers for their churches. Opening on Sundays would devastate ministries they had cultivated for decades.
After all, staying open on Sundays would not effect those of us in the offices. We worked Monday through Friday. It affected our floor people.
The majority of senior staff said we had no choice. But April dragged on, and still Mr. Simpson would not make the decision.
Anita, even though she was merely a minor manager out on the floor, had been with the store for years. She had a grapevine that she used. She told me that the board was pressuring Mr. Simpson to open on Sundays. We heard that some local churches were praying for him in their prayer meetings, and they were praying for God to honor the man who honored him, by giving the store prosperity.
One day before the staff meeting started, somebody told him about the churches that were praying for him. And I heard him say, "God will honor the man who honors Him, but it may not be in the way we want."
I spoke up. "But we should ask Him," I said.
"Grace, if it didn't cost anything to be true to what you believe, then serving God would be the assurance of worldly prosperity," he told me. "And people would follow conscience just to make money off it."
"So you won't open the store on Sundays?" I asked.
He hesitated. "I have to know that it's the right thing to do," he said. "Then I would open the store on Sundays. But these people, our retail staff, many of them, work here simply because they don't have to work on Sunday. They use Sunday to honor God. I'm not ready to take that from them. The store is still profitable."
* * * *
The purchasing cutbacks that ensued as our store stopped expanding its inventory became noticeable. But I had other changes that demanded my attention. As things worked out, Beauchamp left us before Steve and Julie did. He sold his house two days after he put it on the market. And true to his word, he let me have all the glassware, dinnerware, and flatware I wanted for my little place.
Hillary, who started to feel better as April began, orchestrated a magnificent sendoff for Beauchamp. He knew so many people, from the waiters and waitresses down at Shoney's to the mayor of Black Mountain, that it was impossible to have a single dinner in his honor. So Hillary and several friends rented the lobby and dining area of one of the hotels, and we had an open house for him. People left gifts and signed a book of memories for him, paid their respects, and enjoyed a free buffet.
I stayed for the entire event and acted as a hostess, while Beauchamp, immaculate in white shirt, black waistcoat, and tails, bowed and spoke to the people who came to say goodbye to him. Bus drivers, the cashiers from Piggly-Wiggly, prominent lawyers and businessmen, the head of the rescue mission, the staff at the local news stations, the high school debate team, the morning crew from Shoneys, and scores of others, all attended.
Hillary and I both wore evening gowns, and I was surprised, and charmed, when all of the men from the Breakfast Club showed up in tails. Steve, Kazzazz, John, Alf, and a few others from the gym came all decked out in rented finery. Kazzezz, his bulging arms and chest straining against the tight black cloth, looked like he could barely breathe. I wondered how anybody had ever fitted him. He had arms like tree trunks.
They had their photographs taken together with Beauchamp. He did his best to smile broadly, a trick that forever eluded him.
Beauchamp never understood the effortless grins that Americans could flash. He always smiled with his eyes, but otherwise his expressions were subtle. In the group photo, he looked almost silly, with an artificial grin on his face. But in the photo with me, taken by Hillary, his eyes are alight and the rest of his face quiet, the way I will always remember him.
|
And in the streets, the children screamed;
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
The war for Sundays continued. Within a single month, every competitor of Simpsons opened its doors on Sundays from 1:00 PM to 6:00 PM. We alone remained closed.
And profits dropped. But Simpsons was not a public business. It was owned by the Simpson family. They governed decisions by means of their hand-picked board, mostly family members and a few financial officers who handled loans for the store.
The first losses in profits were determined to be within a range that didn't threaten the store. In fact, it was possible that the losses were temporary. Once the novelty of shopping on Sunday wore off, people might just ignore the department stores on the Lord's Day. Or the expense of staying open might outweigh earnings.
But as the weeks went by and the second quarter started, it became evident that the franchise stores were prospering from opening on Sunday, however marginally, during the slowest quarter of the year. At an executive meeting in April, Mr. Simpson announced in a staff meeting that I had been promoted to Buyer. Everybody applauded, and then we got down to business.
Abraham Stultz spoke right away, as everybody knew he would.
"These profits will expand for the competition as the sales growth expands over the year, Robert," he said to Mr. Simpson. "We are losing ground and sliding down a slippery slope."
"Profits are down only two percent from last year this time," Mr. Simpson said.
"In a year when we should be five percent ahead! We're seven points in the negative for earnings expectations. And you know that!"
The room was crowded, and at this clear rebuke of the head of the store, you could almost hear everybody draw in a breath and hold it. Nobody ever spoke this way in meetings with senior staff present.
"I don't have reason enough to violate my conscience on this, Abraham," Mr. Simpson told him. "Or to ask my people to violate their consciences."
"Listen to me Robert; you have created a nice community of working people here," Mr. Stultz said. "Think about what you might be doing to them if you don't ask them to work on Sunday. If the store slips in sales, we will have to lay people off. And this community of people will be broken up. You have a good business and happy workers. You have to adapt to the times."
"As always you raise excellent points for consideration," Mr. Simpson said. "Thank you. Let's move on."
But it was no surprise, later in the week, when Mr. Simpson scheduled meetings, in groups of 25, with all the staff from the retail floor to poll them on their opinions about working on Sunday.
Anita kept me updated about the people out on the floor. Most preferred not to work on Sunday but offered no real objection if the store chose a seven day schedule. There was a strong but small minority who opposed breaking the Sunday Sabbath. But the store's most experienced floor managers were among that minority. They were Sunday School teachers and youth workers for their churches. Opening on Sundays would devastate ministries they had cultivated for decades.
After all, staying open on Sundays would not effect those of us in the offices. We worked Monday through Friday. It affected our floor people.
The majority of senior staff said we had no choice. But April dragged on, and still Mr. Simpson would not make the decision.
Anita, even though she was merely a minor manager out on the floor, had been with the store for years. She had a grapevine that she used. She told me that the board was pressuring Mr. Simpson to open on Sundays. We heard that some local churches were praying for him in their prayer meetings, and they were praying for God to honor the man who honored him, by giving the store prosperity.
One day before the staff meeting started, somebody told him about the churches that were praying for him. And I heard him say, "God will honor the man who honors Him, but it may not be in the way we want."
I spoke up. "But we should ask Him," I said.
"Grace, if it didn't cost anything to be true to what you believe, then serving God would be the assurance of worldly prosperity," he told me. "And people would follow conscience just to make money off it."
"So you won't open the store on Sundays?" I asked.
He hesitated. "I have to know that it's the right thing to do," he said. "Then I would open the store on Sundays. But these people, our retail staff, many of them, work here simply because they don't have to work on Sunday. They use Sunday to honor God. I'm not ready to take that from them. The store is still profitable."
* * * *
The purchasing cutbacks that ensued as our store stopped expanding its inventory became noticeable. But I had other changes that demanded my attention. As things worked out, Beauchamp left us before Steve and Julie did. He sold his house two days after he put it on the market. And true to his word, he let me have all the glassware, dinnerware, and flatware I wanted for my little place.
Hillary, who started to feel better as April began, orchestrated a magnificent sendoff for Beauchamp. He knew so many people, from the waiters and waitresses down at Shoney's to the mayor of Black Mountain, that it was impossible to have a single dinner in his honor. So Hillary and several friends rented the lobby and dining area of one of the hotels, and we had an open house for him. People left gifts and signed a book of memories for him, paid their respects, and enjoyed a free buffet.
I stayed for the entire event and acted as a hostess, while Beauchamp, immaculate in white shirt, black waistcoat, and tails, bowed and spoke to the people who came to say goodbye to him. Bus drivers, the cashiers from Piggly-Wiggly, prominent lawyers and businessmen, the head of the rescue mission, the staff at the local news stations, the high school debate team, the morning crew from Shoneys, and scores of others, all attended.
Hillary and I both wore evening gowns, and I was surprised, and charmed, when all of the men from the Breakfast Club showed up in tails. Steve, Kazzazz, John, Alf, and a few others from the gym came all decked out in rented finery. Kazzezz, his bulging arms and chest straining against the tight black cloth, looked like he could barely breathe. I wondered how anybody had ever fitted him. He had arms like tree trunks.
They had their photographs taken together with Beauchamp. He did his best to smile broadly, a trick that forever eluded him.
Beauchamp never understood the effortless grins that Americans could flash. He always smiled with his eyes, but otherwise his expressions were subtle. In the group photo, he looked almost silly, with an artificial grin on his face. But in the photo with me, taken by Hillary, his eyes are alight and the rest of his face quiet, the way I will always remember him.
