Heart of Service
Anne Marie Frazier, 137 YinD
I used to have a halo and a farmer’s tan in a Sunday school dress. I used to stain my lips with grape juice and use ash as eyeshadow. I inhaled candy crosses on Easter until my stomach hurt and played with my grandma’s manger set like they were barbies. I posted bible verses on Instagram and didn’t get my ears pierced until I was 18. I learned not to touch the melting wax on the Christmas Eve candles. I knew all the words to the Christian pop songs on the radio.
Later on, I swapped out that halo for an apron, covered in ink stains and full of wine corks and straw wrappers. I knew where the back up receipt paper was in a locker that could barely open and I could fix the spring on the dishwasher in the middle of a dinner rush. I knew the ins and outs of food allergies, from seafood to soy. I knew how many pitchers of sugar to mix into the sweet tea. I can (somewhat) confidently carry three drinks in one hand and I can power wash the deck (but please don’t make me). I know the right way to cut lemons and lettuce and I know how to pour a beer, with or without ice.
All of that garbled backstory is to say I am no stranger to the word “service.” But defining it – specifically having a “heart of service?” Being “service-minded?” – that’s a little bit more complicated. I’ve always found it intimidating – like I’m an imposter when my name appears in the same sentence.
I remember one of my last days at work before moving to Thailand. It was a slow Thursday morning and my section was filled with familiar faces, quietly anticipating saying goodbye. I had worked in and out of the service industry since I was 17, mostly in passing as a college kid trying to make quick cash, but this restaurant was an exception. I worked there for two years, and it felt like a home to me. I spoke its language, I knew its walls, I could walk the building with my eyes closed. The servers, the bartenders, the kitchen – they were my family. As a good friend of mine would say: “me and mine”. But that Thursday morning, as I closed out an old manager of mine and her table got up to leave, I heard her say to her friend, “there goes the best of us.”
It felt weird to hear…because it didn’t feel true.
To me, the best of us had to be our manager Sam, who held the entire restaurant on her shoulders without getting nearly enough credit. Or Deacon, who never let the service industry chew him up and spit him back out. He was always kind and he was always good. Or Dante, a bartender and good friend who I trust with my life more than a doctor or a therapist. Or a gal or two named Julia, who made the job for me. They gave me a reason to show up. They got me through many shifts and I know will get me through many more things to come.
This could be a very, very long list if I gave myself the time.
But, in my opinion, the best of us is still in the building. I felt unworthy of that title.
I left that job and came into the Peace Corps still intimidated by this idea of service. I expected to meet a breed of people, blindingly selfless, a golden standard of altruism. Whatever spark others saw in me I expected an abundance of in others. Frankly, I was terrified. I thought I would pale in comparison. Whatever service was, whatever it truly meant and looked like in its purest form, no matter how compelling and intriguing in my life, I felt like I couldn’t claim it.
I have lived here for 7 months now and I can tell you that I didn’t find anyone like that. I didn’t meet the unattainable. I found something much better.
I found unpolished. I found curious. I found warmth. I found an eagerness to step into discomfort. I found resilience and a willingness to adapt. I found open minds and effort behind intention. I found authenticity. I found people – real, regular people. And I realized this glorified notion of service, this impossibility in my head, was really just a mindset to step into. They are big shoes to fill, but it’s one size fits all – as long as you are willing to come unpolished and curious.
So I guess this is a love letter to my fellow PCVs for being the most awesome, regular people I have ever met. For humanizing service for me. It’s not holy, it’s attainable and it doesn’t have to be intimidating, it just needs to be intentional. My message to anyone that thinks they aren’t cut out for this: only you determine that. There is no standard, there is no tape measure that says if you are tall enough for the ride. No one is shiny, no one is perfect — most of us are covered in bug spray and sweat. Come as you are. There’s a whole world out here, and I think it’s pretty cool.
Finally, to my old coworkers - I think you would all make wonderful volunteers. We are all the best of us.
