Testing - 34 Weeks, 5 days

I am being tested. That's the only explanation I can come up with. And I can't decide if it's God or the devil who is testing me.

You see, I bartend "part-time" on weekends. (I put that in quotes because over the course of Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I put in about 30 hours. My wages are a joke, as are my tips, but that's a different post for a different time...) It's not an easy job. It's hard on my feet, my patience, my self-esteem. But it got me through my separation from Evan's dad, student teaching and finishing college, and the last year.

I used to think that bartending was God's way of providing for me in a tough situation, and maybe it was. It always seemed that whenever I really needed it, I'd get a night of really great tips and pay off my bills. And maybe God did use the opportunity to provide for me and my son in a bad place when I really needed it.

But after a while, I began to feel like my job was sinful. It felt sinful because I was using my looks and dressing for tips, because I know there were guys I'd serve all night who would go home and beat their wives or neglect their kids, and because I was promoting drunkeness and partying. It slowly started to feel very wrong to be there. I began to feel like I was chipping off a little piece of my soul every time I'd go to work.

Aaron and I had talked about my quitting but times are tough. Where am I going to go? What am I going to do?

We've already made the decision that I will not return to bartending after I've had this little one. This past weekend just confirmed that our decision was the right one:

Saturday started out pretty slow. I went into work at about 5:00 and there were only a couple guys there. I was bracing myself because I've had a bad experience with one of the customers before, but he surprised me and let me be. He left and I felt calmer.

I knew there was trouble when about an hour and a half into my shift, a customer we'll call Laura came in without her boyfriend, whom we'll call Doug.  Laura and Doug are always together and always drunk. Word gets around in a small town like our's and it's a well-known fact that Doug is pretty rough with his women. Sure enough, about 15 minutes later, Doug shows up. Why Laura leaves when they're fighting and comes to a place that she has to know he will find her at is beyond me! But I'm staying out of this. I'm just the bartender. And we have a few other customers. It's rather intimate, actually. We're all going to hear anything Doug and Laura say. Anyway...

I ask Doug what he wants. He responds, "You know what I f---ing drink." Yes, I do. That's true. So I ask if he's going to stick with his usual can or switch to a bottle of beer tonight. The last time I saw him, he had been drinking bottles and made a big fuss when I brought him a can because everyone knows you can't switch from a bottle to a can or vice versa! I get a "Jesus Christ... ::grunt:: What, do you get stupider the more pregnant you get?!?"

Oh.... My..... God..... I am in shock. Are you kidding me? I'm furious, but I'm also in shock. I slam his beer down in front of him, literally throw his change on the bar and refuse to talk to him or look at him or serve him after that. (Go ahead and judge me now. You can say I should have thrown him out. I probably should have. But all I was thinking was that I'm 8 months pregnant and he's not afraid to beat his girlfriend; he's not going to be afraid to hit me, either.)

I can't believe what just happened. And now I'm in a bad mood.


A few hours go by, and I text my husband about the incident. He's talking smart about taking Doug down but he's at a bachelor party and I know he's been drinking all day. I even thought, yeah, right. You can't even yell at the cable guy when we get an outrageous bill. He's not going to defend my honor verbally or physically. It's a good thing I can usually take care of myself. Little did I know Aaron would get the chance to show how he really would respond in such a situation.

I was happy to see him come in with the bachelor party he was with. The group was pretty small, I knew most of them, and they were a variety of ages. They had been drinking, playing frisbee golf and bowling all night. I figured this stop would keep them out of trouble and close to home.

Imagine my surprise when I asked one of the older guys Aaron was with what he'd like to drink when I got the response, "A light of Miller, ya fat f---ing b---h." This time, I'm not shocked, and it doesn't take me long to throw my own expletives at him. If he's going to stay and have a drink, he's going to act like a human being, sit down, and shut up. (You can fill in your own blanks here.) He is not going to tangle with this mama bear!

This might be a good time to mention that this is the guy my husband's been buddying up with all day long, and Aaron is sitting right next to him. Not that I want my husband to get into a bar brawl but his reaction was less heated than our neighbor's, who was sitting about five chairs away. I can hear the neighbor yelling at the drunk party-goer over my own furious bellows, and I can see my husband's scowl but he's just shaking his head saying, "Not cool, man. Not cool." Thanks, honey. Way to take him down. I'm so grateful my mother taught me to be a stong, independent woman and not to rely on other people to take care of me.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not mad at my husband for his reaction. I'm chuckling because he's a big talker. And because I'm proud of myself for being able to stand up for myself.

You're probably reading this thinking, "There's no way it got worse after this." Oh, yes, it did, my friends. I got two more nasty comments. I'll spare you the long, detailed situations and language but basically one stranger asked me if I had a large vagina for his buddy and a very drunk regular told me and a morbidly obese customer that we had huge, matching bellies. To add insult to injury, that drunk regular was complaining about how "big" her belly was about five minutes later. I handled myself again, but this was a rough night!

I'm not sure how I got through in one piece. I came home with my self-esteem and faith in shreds. How could I have been so mistreated by so many people in such a short period of time? What am I supposed to get out of this?

I read something a few weeks ago that made me think something to the effect of, "Jesus got treated like crap. His faith was tested. Why wouldn't your's be?" And then I heard it again last Wednesday at church when my pastor said something to the effect of "Jesus was treated badly and humiliated. Why shouldn't the rest of us be? We pay a price for our faith. God didn't promise that nothing bad would ever happen to us. He promised us something worth much more."

These thoughts are bouncing around in my head and I'm trying to figure out what the test is. Did I pass? Did I fail? The truth is, I don't know. I do know that God has been pushing my faith, asking me to trust him, telling me to quit bartending for over a year now. He's reassuring me now that I am making the right decision.

And maybe... now this is a new thought here... God is calling me to be the mother of this child. I felt called immediately with Evan. There was never a doubt in my mind. I've endured so much more with this pregnancy than I did with Evan, I feel as though I'm having to fight for this one. Maybe God is using this opportunity to make me feel connected, a feeling I am just beginning to experience in this pregnancy.