Driving Home The Kindness, Part 3

, , | Hopeless | April 26, 2016

(My period has hit me like a truck one day and I’m making my way towards the train station to get home. It’s becoming very hard to even stand, much less walk straight and I sit down to take break, but I’m obviously in pain. A woman stops to ask what’s wrong and, when I explain, goes off to get some painkillers for me. Unfortunately, my stomach decides that the source of the pain must be the poison I just drank and throws it right up.)

Woman: “Oh, dear! You know what? I’ll call my daughter and she’ll give you a ride home. Just stay here a moment!”

(Her daughter drove me all the way home and talked very kindly to me so I could relax but still give some directions. Despite it being a miserable day, I remember it very fondly.)


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Been To Hell(‘s Angels) And Back

, , | Hopeless | April 25, 2016

(Our theatre has a lecture series where authors give presentations. One presenter is a Holocaust survivor. I am very surprised to see a large and stereotypical ‘biker’ come in. He has a leather vest, sleeveless shirt, tattoos, and a beard. As the holocaust survivor is presenting, two teenage boys are being very rowdy and whispering to each other.)

Boy #1: “God! When the f*** is this going to be over?”

Boy #2: “I don’t know. Can we just go now?”

(They stand up, and attempt to leave. The biker stands up, removes his sunglasses, and addresses the teens.)

Biker: “Listen here you little s***. This sweet little old lady has gone through more s*** then you ever will in your life. I advise you to sit your little punk-a** down, and pay her the respect she deserves.”

(The boys sit down, intimidated. The biker receives a round of applause and a hug from the lecturer. I refund his ticket, and offer him free entrance to all our lectures. He’s been to each and every one since.)

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Coffee For The Monkeys

, , , , | Hopeless | April 25, 2016

(My daughter has an unusual name, and even when we write the pronunciation beside the spelling on forms or other documents, people still always mispronounce it. She is eight years old. We are at a coffee shop and each person in our family is getting a drink.)

Husband: “Flat white.”

Barista: “Name?”

Husband: “[Husband].”

Me: “They would each like a caramel frappuccino with whipped cream.”

Barista: *to my older daughter* “Your name?”

Older Daughter: “[Older Daughter].”

Barista: *to my younger daughter* “Your name?”

(I can see my daughter hesitating to say her name because it is never a simple process, even if you say it, then spell it immediately, people always comment on it.)

Me: *to her* “You can give any name you want. It doesn’t have to be YOUR name.”

Younger Daughter: *to barista* “Monkey Face!”

Barista: *laughing* “Okay, Monkey Face!” *to the drink-maker* “Here is a cup for Monkey Face.” *they both laugh and my daughter is happy*

Me: “And I’d like [my order], please.”

Barista: “You must be Mom?”

Me: “Yes. You can just put ‘Mom’ on mine.”

(When we picked up our drinks, I saw she had actually written “SuperMom!” on my cup. I “awww”ed and thanked her. Very sweet.)

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Little Girl, Big Gesture

, | Hopeless | April 25, 2016

(I have badly dislocated my knee and am on crutches. I’m in a lot of pain and decided to treat myself to a cake and a coffee. When I finish and head toward the door I see a little girl quivering with excitement while sitting at a table by the door with her dad.)

Little Girl: *to her dad* “Can I?!”

Dad: “Go ahead.”

(The little girl races to the door to hold it open for me.)

Me: “Thank you so much!”

Little Girl: *beaming with pride* “You’re welcome! I hope your leg gets better soon!”

(It made my day seeing her so eager to help another person and it gives me hope for the future!)

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Making A Hug(e) Difference, Part 2

, | Hopeless | April 24, 2016

(I had received a call earlier that day that the test results for my dog, that I have had for 18 years, say he is diagnosed with cancer. I have just gotten off the phone with my husband, telling him that I think it was time to put my dog to sleep so he doesn’t suffer, since there’s nothing we can do to cure him. I am sitting in a fast food parking lot and break down sobbing. I hear a knock on my car window.)

Gentleman: “Uh… miss? Are you all right?”

Me: *wiping tears away* “What? Oh, sorry… Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Gentleman: “What’s wrong? Did someone hurt you?”

Me: “Oh, no. I just got off the phone with my husband. We’ve decided to put my dog to sleep. I’ve had him for 18 years and he’s… he’s just been my best friend for so many years.”

(At this point I start crying again.)

Kid: *from his car* “Is the lady okay, Daddy?!”

(I smile.)

Gentleman: “She’ll be okay, sweetheart.” *he turns back to me* “Would you like a hug?”

Me: “Yeah… Kinda….”

(I got out of the car and he gave me a big hug and told me it will be okay. He let me cry for a few moments and I went over and met his wife and kids sitting in the car, and thanked them for their kindness. I went home feeling a bit stronger and was better able to help my husband through it. Thank you, kind sir.)


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