The Man I Was Becoming, and the Calling I Never Expected
By Jeffrey Badders
I used to spend a lot of time walking around the mall in Salina, Kansas.
Not because I had money to spend.
I didn't.
I went because I liked watching people.
I was a people watcher.
I would sit near the food court and observe families, married couples, children, and strangers going about their lives. Some parents were affectionate toward their children. Others seemed distant. Sometimes I watched couples arguing in front of their children, and I wondered why they would do that.
I thought going to the mall was supposed to be an enjoyable experience.
But what interested me most wasn't what people were buying. It was how they treated one another.
I watched their expressions, their reactions, and how they handled situations when things didn't go their way.
I didn't know it then, but those hours of watching people would become useful in a way I hadn't expected.
I had moved away from the neighborhood I called the hood. I was living in a nicer part of Salina, and I wanted to keep moving forward.
I had a motorcycle and a car. I had responsibilities. And responsibilities meant bills.
Time is money and the rent is due. Every day.
I needed to work.
The Man Who Gave Me a Chance
I started filling out job applications at the mall.
By then, I had begun paying more attention to how I presented myself. I understood that different jobs called for different clothing.
I wore a tie, suspenders, and nice dress shoes. I even bought a pager and wore it on my hip.
I wanted to look like someone who was ready for an opportunity.
Eventually, I interviewed with an older gentleman at Payless Shoes.
He gave me a chance.
I didn't tell him my entire childhood story. I was getting older, and I didn't feel I needed to explain my foster care experiences to everyone I met.
I wanted to be judged by the person standing in front of him.
And I wanted to learn something new.
That gentleman was getting close to retirement. As I worked with him, I discovered that he had much more to teach me than how to sell shoes.
He talked about attitude, direction, motivation, and self-confidence.
He told me:
“You don't have to hand someone a business card. You are the Billboard.”
That stayed with me.
He believed that the way you carried yourself told people who you were.
He also taught me that selling wasn't simply about getting someone to buy something.
It was about understanding people.
He wanted customers greeted warmly. He wanted us to listen to what they needed, find the correct shoe size, and make them feel welcome.
He was a fisherman, and sometimes he compared selling to fishing. You had to understand how to attract someone's interest.
But his greatest emphasis was always customer service.
He believed the first impression mattered.
I learned to sell shoes, accessories, and other merchandise. I invited satisfied customers to tell their friends about us.
And it worked.
I became successful at what I was doing and started earning good commissions.
But I wasn't working just to become employee of the month.
I wanted to improve myself and contribute to the company.
I believed in working hard, treating people respectfully, and doing the right thing even when no one was watching.
The Opportunity I Wasn't Sure I Was Ready For
One day, the older gentleman called me into his office.
He told me he was getting ready to retire.
Then he suggested I consider becoming a manager.
I wasn't sure I had the confidence.
I went home and wrote in my journal.
I thought about the opportunity, but I also thought about what I already knew how to do.
I didn't want to break something that didn't need fixing.
So I kept doing my job.
Eventually, the gentleman retired.
And another manager came in.
He was younger than the previous manager, perhaps only five years older than I was.
But his philosophy was very different.
He wanted us to push customers harder, pressure them, and concentrate on getting the sale.
I disagreed.
I asked him how he would feel if he were the customer and someone was pressuring him to buy something.
His response made it clear that he was the boss, and I wasn't.
That conversation brought back memories from earlier stages of my life.
I remembered an older trucker from the truck stop where I had worked as a host.
He had taught me to think before reacting because every decision could carry consequences.
I remembered Mr. Hauser from military school.
“Your attitude affects my behavior and my behavior affects your attitude.”
And I remembered the painful experiences of childhood, including the time a senior shoved me into a locker.
Those memories had taught me that sometimes you have to stand up for yourself.
But they had also taught me that reacting out of anger could create consequences you never intended.
Inside me, it was like an inferno.
I wanted to say things to that manager.
I wanted him to hear exactly what I thought.
But my internal monologue was working through the puzzle pieces.
What would happen if I reacted?
What would I gain?
What could I lose?
I knew I might need another job someday. I also knew a future employer might contact my previous employer.
Sometimes you have to swallow your pride.
Sometimes you have to let someone else have the spotlight.
And sometimes you just have to be quiet.
So I listened.
I continued working for that manager for another six months.
But I wasn't learning anything from him.
The first manager had been a leader to me. The second was simply my boss.
Eventually, I decided I didn't fit into that environment anymore.
I gave my two weeks' notice.
He reminded me that I was a good salesperson, but that when I wasn't the boss, I didn't get to make the decisions.
I understood that.
But I also believed employees could have ideas that might improve a company.
We didn't agree.
And I left.
Walking Away With My Head Up
On my last day, I felt relieved.
But I was anxious, too.
I still had bills to pay.
I still needed another job.
Walking away didn't make those responsibilities disappear.
I went home and wrote in my journal.
I reflected on the importance of leaving an environment where I wasn't growing or learning, especially when that environment was beginning to conflict with the image of the man I wanted to become.
I wanted to walk forward with my head up.
I had learned something important.
Standing up for yourself doesn't always mean raising your voice.
Sometimes it means knowing when it's time to leave.
The Suit Department
Since I was already familiar with the mall, I began looking for another job there.
I found work selling suits and men's clothing at Dillard's.
And I'll never forget something about that job.
That was the first time I learned how to tie a tie.
I learned about men's clothing, measurements, sleeve lengths, and how a suit should fit.
Some customers needed alterations from a tailor. Others could find clothing that fit without much adjustment.
I enjoyed helping people.
One day, a couple came into the department.
The gentleman was looking for a suit.
I helped him with the clothing and fitting, and as they were getting ready to leave, they said something unexpected.
They told me they saw something in me.
I asked what they meant.
They suggested that perhaps I could do something more than sell clothing.
I didn't know what to make of that.
They were strangers.
But they seemed to believe there was something more I could do with my life.
Then they invited me to church.
The Campfire Came Back to Me
Their invitation brought back memories of my childhood.
I remembered the campfire.
I remembered my imaginary friend.
And I remembered God.
As a child, I had experienced so much uncertainty, rejection, and pain.
But I remembered believing that my imaginary friend was there with me, and that God had never left me.
They didn't judge me.
They were there in the moment.
And now, years later, two people I had met while selling a suit were telling me they saw something in me.
I accepted their invitation.
They invited me to supper, and eventually I began attending their church.
Throughout childhood, I had experienced different churches, religions, and cultures. I had seen that people believed differently, and I found that interesting.
But this experience made me wonder about something else.
Why do certain people enter our lives at certain times?
Out of all the people in the world, why do we meet the ones we do?
I wrote about it in my journal.
Maybe there was a reason.
Maybe this was a calling from heaven.
Maybe another journey was beginning.
I didn't know.
But I was willing to discover what might come next.
A Different Kind of World
The couple had parents living in a nursing home.
One day, I went with them to visit.
And something about that experience stayed with me.
I began thinking about the generations who had come before me.
I thought about my own philosophy of life and the kind of contribution I wanted to make.
Selling shoes was work.
Selling suits was work.
Working at a truck stop was work.
Those jobs had taught me valuable lessons.
But I began wondering whether there was something more I could offer.
Something more meaningful to the generations who had helped bring me into this world.
So I started volunteering at the nursing home.
And almost immediately, I realized I had entered an entirely different environment.
The residents had their own experiences, their own histories, and their own ways of seeing the world.
Many were living within rules and routines that weren't the same as the freedom they had once known in their own homes.
I could see things in their faces.
I began observing people again, just as I had done at the mall.
But this time, I wasn't watching couples shopping or parents taking their children to the food court.
I was watching an older generation.
People whose lives had begun long before mine.
People whose memories and experiences belonged to different times.
I started thinking about how I would communicate with residents who didn't understand the world the way I did.
Especially people living with Alzheimer's.
I couldn't simply expect them to understand my ideas or my view of the world.
I needed to understand theirs.
In my journal, I thought about the puzzle pieces again.
Some of those pieces were antique.
Some wouldn't fit into the frame I was accustomed to.
And some people could only manage so many pieces at once.
I began to understand that I would need to meet them where they were.
Not where I expected them to be.
And standing there, in that unfamiliar environment, I began wondering whether the couple who had walked into the men's department had unknowingly helped open a door to something much greater.
I had spent years trying to discover the man I was supposed to become.
But now another question was beginning to form.
What if the next part of my life wasn't about what I could accomplish for myself, but what I could give to someone else?
I had no idea how many lives, memories, and lessons were waiting on the other side of that question.
And my journey into that world was only beginning.