Not Just a Job: On Discovering That Every Role Can Be a Form of Service — If We Let It

My first job was standing on a corner in the Texas heat wearing a polar bear costume, promoting Polar Bear Ashburns ice cream shop. I was twelve years old, and after proving myself in that sweltering suit, I was promoted to scooping ice cream inside for $2 an hour. That was where Mr. Waters taught me foundational life skills and values that endure to this day.

He taught me to have a strong work ethic. From him I learned the infamous "Time to lean is time to clean," which any restaurant or retail worker will recognize, and which really means, "You're here to work. Stay busy and find something to do." He was teaching me to have a work ethic, but he was also teaching that there is always an opportunity to make things around me better.

He taught me sales. "Ask them if they want two scoops or three," he instructed. The customers would laugh — but they bought two scoops almost every time. He was teaching me the art of upselling, but he was also teaching me to surprise them by anticipating their wants and giving them more than they expected.

He taught me the proper way to greet a customer. Always watch the door for incoming customers, stop what you're doing, make eye contact, and greet them. He was teaching me customer service, but he was also teaching me how to make people feel seen and welcomed.

It might seem as if he was teaching me a strong work ethic, sales, and how to greet a customer, but what he was in fact teaching me was something far more important — how to be of service. How to be a better human being. I've always believed the world would be a kinder place if everyone worked in customer service at least once in their lifetime.

As I carried these lessons into other positions over the years, I began to understand that Mr. Waters had given me more than job skills—he had given me a framework for human connection. I advanced from ice cream scooper to management in various restaurants and retail establishments, and I always tried to carry with me the lessons Mr. Waters taught. And I learned a few of my own that I hope I've passed on.

One of the most meaningful, however, was the profound opportunity presented by that initial greeting. When someone walks into an establishment, we say, "How may I help you?" Too often that question is an absent-minded, automatic greeting at best. But I noticed that when I paused first, became present, and asked the question, "How may I help you?" — with (and here's the important part) a true desire to hear the answer, and intention to act upon it — amazing things followed. The simplest of them was that I was taken out of myself, even if only for a few moments. And in those moments, my own problems seemed to evaporate in the warmth of serving someone else. The simplest of interactions could then take on profound meaning.

Years later, while working at a women's clothing store, I learned just how profound that simple question could be. A woman named Abby came in to shop. I asked with sincerity, "How may I help you," pausing while I looked into her eyes and genuinely listened for her reply. Together, we discovered the answer was much deeper than either of us had expected. She was recovering from a double mastectomy and could not lift her arms to try on clothes without help. Surprising both of us, she allowed me into her dressing room and, with ultimate vulnerability, allowed me to help her slowly undress and slide a new blouse over her head.

When she turned to look at her reflection, she began to cry. She told me that she felt beautiful for the first time since her surgery and that, until that moment, she had not wanted to even look at herself in the mirror.

We sat together for half an hour in that dressing room not much larger than a photo booth while she told me her story. I'm certain that if my question had been a rote phrase uttered out of obligation or habit, she might have found her blouse — but she wouldn't have gotten what she needed.

As I moved away from positions that had "customer service" in their titles, I took the lessons learned with me. I've discovered that any job can be a customer service job, and that most interactions are infused with deeper meaning when the question "How may I help you?" is where I begin, whether spoken aloud or not. I'd like to think that being the managing editor of The Charlotte Jewish News is more than managing deadlines and fixing dangling modifiers. I try to keep in mind my "customers" — the agencies represented within that have important stories to tell, the readers who rely on the paper to deliver relevant information, the advertisers who trust us to help them build their businesses, even my employer and co-workers. With each of these customers, I try to ask, "How may I help you?"

Much like my experience with Abby, I've had some surprising answers and developed rewarding relationships as a result of posing this question. And hopefully, it also makes me better at my job.

I've come to understand that "How may I help you?" isn't really a question about service—it's a question about presence. It's an invitation to step outside ourselves and into the space where real human connection happens. And in a world that often feels increasingly disconnected, perhaps that's the most important skill any of us can learn. I've always said I wish everyone could work in customer service at least once — and now I believe that if we're asking the right question, in any role, we already are.

Shira