I was at the grocery shop a few days ago, tired and angry after one of those long days. I was weary, cranky, and not in the mood to be around a lot of people. I saw something that made me stop in my tracks as I pulled my cart down one of the aisles. A woman was asleep on top of a grocery cart. Her torso bent forward, and her arms swung loosely from the grip. Inside the cart, there were two tiny kids who were sleeping and snuggling up with the groceries. It looked like they had just given in to slumber.
It seemed like a mess. It felt like a dream. I didn’t stop to think about what I was really seeing; I just shot a picture with my phone.
I didn’t think about it. I didn’t think about how she was doing or how her day was going. I didn’t see pain or tiredness; I saw a chance to make a joke. I posted the picture on social media and said, “Some moms just give up.”
I thought it would be funny. And it did. People smiled at the comments, and some even made their own jokes. But not everyone thought it was funny. Some others said I was nasty, unfair, and even cruel. I rolled my eyes. I thought, “People are too sensitive these days.” “It’s just a joke.”
Even if they are quiet and sometimes painfully poetic, life has a way of giving you lessons you didn’t know you needed.
Two nights later, I was at home trying to make spaghetti squash, which I had done many times before. The knife slipped and injured my hand when I tried to open it. Very deep. The blood started to pour swiftly, more than I had ever seen from a cut. People began to freak out. I grabbed a kitchen towel, pressed it firmly, and drove myself to the emergency room. My stomach was churning with fear and my hand stung.
I was so overwhelmed when I went to the hospital that I could barely speak. As I kept shouting, “I’m in pain; I need help,” my voice got louder and more frantic. The people at the front desk tried to calm me down, but I couldn’t. I thought I couldn’t do anything.
A nurse came over to me a little while later. Someone tapped me on the shoulder very lightly. When I turned around, everything inside me got chilly.
It was her.
The woman who worked at the store. I took pictures of the mom, teased her, and made her laugh. She had her hair up and was wearing scrubs. She looked tired yet calm. In a businesslike way. Kind.
She looked at me for a second and then murmured, “Do you know who I am?”
I couldn’t say anything. My face got hot. That night, I was more ashamed than I was in pain. I wanted to leave.
But she didn’t scream at me. She didn’t make a fuss. She didn’t throw my words back at me. But she did help me.
She bandaged my wound tightly, asked me questions, and calmed me down. She smiled as she carefully bandaged my hand and instructed me how to keep the stitches clean. She was nice to me even though I didn’t deserve it.
I got more than just a bandaged hand when I left that hospital.
I left with a different kind of awareness. I kept thinking about the scene in the grocery store over and over again. How easy it was to turn someone into a punchline. I made a fast choice about something I didn’t completely grasp. When I saw a fatigued mother, I automatically thought the worse. But I hadn’t seen her whole day, with the things she had to do and the problems she had to deal with. I didn’t know that she would be working shifts and taking care of two kids, possibly by herself. I didn’t see her as a person.
But that night, I did.
She could have made me seem bad. She might have said no to helping. But she didn’t. She was nice to me even though I didn’t deserve it.
Now, whenever I see an image online that makes fun of someone else, I stop what I’m doing. I think about it again. This is because we don’t know what the future holds. You don’t know who they are, what they have, or when you’ll see them again.
Being nice doesn’t cost anything, but not being nice could leave a lasting mark.
And sometimes you need to be quite modest for a while to learn how to properly see other people.