I’m pretty sure everyone has those days. The kind that don’t just stop at “a day” but stretch into weeks—and if you’re like me, you pray they don’t stretch any further. I don’t carry a lucky charm, but maybe I should. One week in early August, it felt like the sky was throwing down boulders, and each one rolled downhill, collecting new disasters along the way.
I won’t bore you with the details. There’s something more important here—and it involves a third-grader.
By the time I pulled into Chick-fil-A for lunch, the Tennessee sun was beating down and my patience had already left the building. I was sprinting between conference calls and contractors, trying to steal a moment of sanity with my comfort meal: a Number 2 with a large Zero-Sugar Lemonade.
The Chick-fil-A employee leaned in with the kind of grin only someone young and optimistic can carry.
“How may I serve you today?”
I rattled off my order. He looked straight at me, still smiling, and asked, “Can you repeat that?”
I slowed down and repeated it again. He nodded, then followed with the standard script: “Can I have a name for the order?”
Relieved, I answered, “David.”
He tilted his head and said, “Can you repeat that?”
Now mind you, he was standing two feet away from my car window. I gave him my name again, slower this time.
Then came the next line: “Would you like any sauces or spices with that?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Can you repeat that?”
This time, my “NO” came out like a full stop, bold font, and capital letters.
That’s when he laughed nervously and confessed he’d been listening to the headset chatter the whole time. Then he asked gently, “Are you having a good day?”
My reply was instant and unvarnished: “NO.”
To his credit, he didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you have a blessed day.”
Driving off, I immediately called my buddy Greg to confess I’d just been a Chick-fil-A terrorist in the drive-thru. The poor kid had poked a bear, but thankfully my only crime was rudeness. Still, it stuck with me.
The rest of that week kept tangling itself into knots, but I found refuge where I often do—with my friends Danny and Tracy. Their house, affectionately called “Mamaw’s,” is always brimming with life. That night, the whole crew was there: their kids, the noble canine Dude, and Fiona, a puppy still figuring out the rules of gravity.
Dinner was pure Southern comfort—fried chicken, homemade mashed potatoes, green beans, and biscuits. Two glasses of wine later, the Chick-fil-A story rolled out of me like a comedy routine. Laughter lifted the weight off my week, dissolving into the easy warmth of late-summer air.
Then came the moment I’ll never forget.
Etta, just starting third grade, looked up from her toy with sparkling eyes behind her glasses. In a voice as simple as it was piercing, she asked, “Are you having a good day?”
The room went still. My throat tightened, and I finally managed:
“I sure am, Etta. Thank you.”
She went back to her toy, smiling. Then she asked—without missing a beat—
“Can you repeat that?”
The room exploded. My belly ached from laughter as I gasped, “Where did you learn timing like that?”
She shrugged and said, matter-of-factly, “I hang around a lot of old people.”
And just like that, my week turned on a dime.
Our future is in good hands.
