Making Peace

It was my junior year in college. The previous year I’d been working with our fraternity house treasurer as an apprentice. I wanted the job as treasurer. If I got the job, the house would pay me by giving me free board, and any way I could help Dad with the college bills was good.

Steve G., the present treasurer, assured me I’d be a shoo-in. “No problem,” he told me. “Just do all the work I give you, and the job is yours.” So I did all the work, and he told me that come election time I’d be the new treasurer. I didn’t worry about it.

However, that year, one of the new sophomores who moved in was an accounting “whiz kid.” His name was Herb. Not only did he want to be a certified public accountant, but he had already worked at a job doing accounting before college. He helped several students with their tax returns and knew bookkeeping inside and out. A lot of sophomores, a rather large group in our house, began saying that Herbie ought to be treasurer. I was a pre-med student with little experience. Herbie would clean up any problems pronto.

Steve, however, told me, “Don’t worry. He’s a sophomore. He can get the job next year if he wants. He ­hasn’t put in any time as an apprentice.”

Steve was a popular guy, captain of the football team, and a possible draft choice by a pro team. (He later tried out for the Dallas Cowboys and the New England Patriots, making the “taxi squad” on the latter team). I figured if he was behind me, I couldn’t lose.

Election time came and we voted on a new president, vice president, and “house manager,” our local Mr. Fixit. As each roster of names came up, the guys who were running for office went downstairs, the rest of the house voted, and in a few minutes the guesswork was over.

Finally, it came down to my turn. Steve nominated me. Someone else nominated Herbie. We both went downstairs. Thinking it would be over in a few minutes, we stood in the stairwell, waiting for the call to come back.

But there was no call.

Finally, we sat down and waited. After discussing accounting methods, classes, pro football, the weather, and wishing each other, “May the best man win,” we’d run out of things to discuss. It had been almost an hour since we’d come downstairs.

“What on earth is going on up there?” I asked, getting more and more nervous.

Herbie didn’t know. “I guess they’re really debating the choice.”

“Do you think the vote is deadlocked?” He had no clue. This was very unusual.

After more minutes of waiting, someone came downstairs. It was Steve. He said, “Sorry, guys, we’ve got a problem. Hang in there.”

I glanced at Herbie. He shrugged and we went back to discussing politics, the president, some recent movies. But my mind wasn’t on any of it. What on earth was happening?

A few minutes later, a friend of mine named Dave came downstairs. He asked Herbie to go outside for a minute. When Herbie was gone, Dave asked me, “What’s the problem with you and Bernie?” Bernie was the house cook. She was a very nice lady, an excellent cook, and I’d had plenty of talks with her, joking and being friendly.

Dave said, “Apparently, she’s totally against you being the treasurer. In fact, she practically hates you.”

I sat there, stunned. I didn’t know what to say. “What did I do?” I had no idea.

“Apparently, you came into the kitchen one time and said something to her about being the one to pay her, so she’d have to work real hard or something.”

I gulped. Yes, I remembered. I’d come in one morning and we were joking around—Bernie, me and our housekeeper, Marion. I’d said something like, “Now you ladies know I’ll probably be treasurer soon. So remember—I’m pretty tough. You’ll have to work hard.” I was only joking around, not at all serious. I had always thought Bernie did a fantastic job.

But Dave told me she had taken it personally, very personally. In fact, for months, though she never said it to my face, she complained about me to numerous guys in the house. Just the mention of my name made her furious.

I was amazed, totally unaware that there was even a problem. I told Dave it was a complete misunderstanding and regardless of the treasurer job, I’d get it straightened out the next morning when she came in to work. Dave slapped me on the back and went back upstairs. Five minutes later I was elected treasurer. But a strange terror gripped me. What would happen tomorrow morning?

I slept fitfully that night, trying to think of what to say. If there was anything I hated, it was being at odds with people. A  Scripture verse later came to mind: “Pursue peace with everyone” (Hebrews 12:14). And another from Romans: “So far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all” (Romans 12:18). And, of course, there was Jesus’ potent word in the Sermon on the Mount: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God” (Matthew 5:9).

But none of that occurred to me at the time. Only that I had a serious problem.

The next morning I washed up, dressed, and went downstairs with tsetse flies stinging inside my stomach. When I walked into the kitchen, Bernie didn’t bat an eye. Even then I saw no inkling of how much she supposedly disliked me. But I came right to the point.

“Bernie, Dave mentioned to me last night something I said to you that really hurt your feelings. I want to apologize for that.”

She looked at me. “Oh, it was nothing, Mark.”

I shook my head. “No, if you were offended, I was wrong. Although I meant it as a joke, it was a poor joke. I should have understood your position. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Sure. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding.” She held out her hand.

I took it, saying, “Bernie, I’m really sorry about all this. I think you’re a fantastic cook, the best on fraternity row, and I wouldn’t want anyone else to work here. I know you work hard, and believe me, as treasurer, it will be a joy to write out your checks, because I know you’ve more than earned it.”

We hugged, and she said, “Thanks a lot, Mark. I’m glad we got this worked out.”

I also went out to talk to our housekeeper, to make sure there was no problem there.

That night, Dave caught me in the hall. He said, “I talked to Bernie.”

I nodded. “And?”

“Everything’s great. She thinks it was all a misunderstanding, and she loves you.”

I smiled. “And to think I didn’t know a thing about it.”

He grimaced. “That’s the way it happens sometimes. But that’s what we’re here for, to help people straighten out problems.”

“Right.”

After that, Bernie and I were the best of friends. When I graduated two years later, she hugged me with tears in her eyes and hoped I would visit often.

But often I wonder what might have happened if Dave hadn’t come to me that night so long ago. Being a peacemaker isn’t always easy. But it’s worth the risk. It can change a sour relationship into a secure one, or a broken friendship into a newer, deeper love that can never end.

—Mark Littleton is the author of more than 60 books and a thousand articles. He speaks frequently to youth and adult conferences and is available for conference ministry. He lives in Missouri with his wife, Jeanette, and has three children who are all smart, and a dog and a cat who have the IQs of sand fleas.