That Christmas morning started off quite peacefully, maybe too peacefully. There was snow on the streets outside the café, and everything felt still. A lot of people were at home with their families, giving each other gifts and watching old holiday movies. On the other side, I was behind the counter making lattes for the few individuals who came in. I had worked on Christmas previously, but that year it felt like a lot more labor. It may have been the anguish of missing my parents, who lived far away, or it could have been the loneliness of watching people come and go as I stayed behind the counter, forcing a smile.
At 9 a.m., a man came in. He was older and had gray hair showing through a wool cap. His scarf looked like it had been around for a long time. He smiled softly and asked for a cup of black coffee. Not a lot. He talked nicely while I poured, and his voice was warm but tired. When I offered him his cup, he grabbed a dollar out of his coat pocket and put it on the counter as a tip.
Even though it wasn’t much, I smiled and said thank you. Then, when I was wiping the surface, I noticed a small piece of paper neatly folded under the dollar bill. I didn’t think much of it at first and thought it was a receipt or some trash. I slipped it in my apron pocket and kept going with the morning rush.
Hours passed. The café stayed slow, so I spent much of the afternoon cleaning tables and filling the pastry case. By the time the clock struck three, the quiet was starting to get to me. I felt like I was the only person in the world, like everyone else was somewhere else, having fun and enjoying their lives.
I accidently touched the folded paper I had forgotten about as I reached into my apron to fetch a pen. I took it out because I wanted to know what it was. One side has vibrant snowmen painted with crayons. They appeared like youngsters, seemed happy, and were a little shaky. There were strange orange triangles for noses, stick arms, and one snowman had what looked like a red baseball helmet on its head. You could hang it on the fridge door because it was such a nice drawing.
I grinned for the first time that day. But I paused as I turned the paper over.
Someone has written “You’re doing great” in a pretty, looping style.
That was it. Just three easy words. But they hit me like a wave. Maybe it was because I hadn’t heard anything good or uplifting in a long time. I could have been doubting myself more than I wanted to. Maybe it was because those words, penned by someone I didn’t know, seemed to be for me.
I sat down for a minute with the small drawing in my fingers. The noise from the coffee machine got quieter. I thought about the father and how his grandkids probably gave him the drawing. He chose to give it away instead of keeping it. He might have been in my place before. He might have just known what it was like to be unseen.
The rest of the day felt different. Customers came and left, but each time it felt less like a business arrangement and more like a chance to get to know someone. I laughed and smiled a lot, and when I closed up that night, I put the picture of the snowman in my wallet.
It’s still there, but the colors of the crayons have faded and aren’t as bright. But every time I see it, I realize that being nice doesn’t have to be a big issue. Sometimes, it’s a hushed message behind a dollar note or a simple letter to someone you’ll never see again.
That man will never know how much that little thing meant to me. But since then, every Christmas I’ve left a note of my own, sometimes on a napkin, under a bill, or even on a coffee sleeve. I usually say, “You’re doing great.” Someone else could need them as much as I did.
