I was at the grocery shop a few days ago, tired and angry after one of those never-ending days. I was exhausted, angry, and didn’t want 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 a supermarket cart, leaning over it. Her torso slumped forward, and her arms hung freely on the grip. There were two small children in the trolley, both asleep and snuggled up with the groceries. It looked like they had just given up and gone to sleep.
It looked like a big mess. It was like a dream. Instead of thinking about what I was really seeing, I just took 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 fatigue; I saw a chance to make a joke. I posted the picture on social media with the caption, “Some moms just give up.”
I thought it would be funny. And it did. People laughed at what others said and offered their own jokes. But not everyone found it funny. Some others said I was harsh, unfair, and even heartless. I rolled my eyes. I said to myself, “People are too sensitive these days.” “It’s only a joke.”
Even if they are quiet and sometimes painfully beautiful, life has a way of giving you lessons you didn’t know you needed.
I was at home two nights later trying to make spaghetti squash, a dish I had made many times before. The knife slipped and injured my hand when I tried to cut it open. Very deep. The blood started to flow quickly, faster than I had ever seen from a cut. People began to get scared. I pressed a kitchen towel 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 hardly talk. I kept shouting, “I’m in pain; I need help,” and my voice was loud and scared. I couldn’t settle down, even though the personnel at the front desk tried to help. I thought I couldn’t do anything.
A nurse arrived to see me a few minutes later. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, and everything inside me got chilly.
It was her.
The woman who worked at the grocery store. I took pictures of the mom, poked fun of her, and told her a joke. She had her hair up and was wearing scrubs. She looked tired yet at peace. In a professional way. Kind.
She looked at me for a second and murmured, “Do you know who I am?”
I couldn’t say anything. My face became warm. That night, I felt more shame than any pain I was in. I wanted to leave.
But she didn’t get mad at me. She didn’t make a big deal out of it. She didn’t fling my comments back at me. But she did help me.
She took care of my injuries with strong hands, asked me questions, and calmed me down. As she wrapped my hand carefully, she smiled and instructed me how to keep the stitches clean. Even though I didn’t deserve it, she was nice to me.
I didn’t only get a bandage on my hand when I left that hospital.
I departed with an altered state of awareness. I kept thinking about the scene in the grocery store over and over. It was so easy to make someone the butt of a joke. I made a choice about something I didn’t completely comprehend very quickly. When I saw a fatigued mother, I thought the worst right away. But I hadn’t seen her whole day, with the things she had to do and the problems she ran into. I didn’t know that she might be working shifts and taking care of two kids, maybe 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 help. But she didn’t. She was nice to me even though I didn’t deserve it.
Now, I stop everything I’m doing as soon as I see a picture online that makes fun of someone else. I think about it again. This is because we don’t know what will happen in the future. You never know who they are, what they have, or when you’ll see them again.
Being nice doesn’t cost anything, but not being nice might leave a lasting impression.
And sometimes you have to be quite modest for a while to learn how to properly see other people.
