That Christmas morning began very peacefully, almost too quietly. There was snow on the streets outside the café, and the world felt quiet. Many folks were at home with their families, exchanging gifts and watching old holiday movies. I was behind the counter making lattes for the few people who came in, on the other hand. I had worked on Christmas before, but that year it felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the pain of missing my parents, who lived far away, or maybe it was just the loneliness of watching people come and go as I stayed behind the counter, forcing a smile.
A man came in at 9 a.m. He was older, with gray hair showing through a wool cap and a scarf that seemed like it had been around for a long time. He smiled gently and asked for a black coffee. Not much. He talked pleasantly while I poured, and his voice was warm but worn out. He took a dollar out of his coat pocket and put it on the counter as a tip when I gave him his cup.
It wasn’t a lot, but I smiled and said thank you anyhow. Then, while I was cleaning up the counter, I saw a small piece of paper folded up neatly under the dollar note. At first, I didn’t think much of it and believed it was a receipt or some trash. I put it in the pocket of my apron and continued with the morning rush.
Hours went by. The café stayed slow, so I spent much of the afternoon wiping tables and stocking the pastry case. The quiet had started to get to me by the time the clock struck three. I felt like I was alone in the world, like everyone else was someplace else, living, laughing, and having fun.
When I reached inside my apron to get a pen, I accidentally touched the folded paper I had forgotten about. I took it out because I was curious. There were bright, crayon-drawn snowmen on one side. They looked like kids, were unsteady, and were cheerful. There were odd orange triangles for noses, stick arms, and one snowman with what looked like a red baseball cap on its head. It was a lovely drawing that you could put on the fridge door.
That was the first time that day that I smiled. But when I flipped the paper over, I stopped.
Someone has written “You’re doing great” in delicate, looping handwriting.
That was all. Only three simple words. But they hit me like a wave. It was probably because I hadn’t heard anything nice or encouraging in weeks. Maybe because I was doubting myself more than I wanted to. Maybe it was because those words, written by a stranger, seemed to be for me.
I sat down for a minute with the little drawing in my hand. The sound of the coffee maker faded into the background. I thought about the man and how his grandkids presumably gave him the sketch. Instead of saving it, he opted to give it away. He might have been in my shoes once. He might have merely known what it felt like to be invisible.
The remainder of the day felt different. Customers came and went, and each one felt less like a business deal and more like a chance to connect. I grinned a lot and laughed a lot, and when I closed up that night, I put the drawing of the snowman in my wallet.
It’s still there, although it’s faded and the crayon colors are a touch bland. But every time I see it, I remember that being kind doesn’t have to be a big deal. Occasionally, it’s a silent message behind a dollar bill or a simple letter written for someone you’ll never see again.
That man will never know how much that tiny thing meant to me. But every Christmas since then, I’ve left a letter of my own, sometimes on a napkin, under a bill, or even on a coffee sleeve. “You’re doing great” is what I always say. Someone out there might need them just as much as I did.