I live in Sweden and last week (beginning of April) our capital was struck by a terrorist attack. A man hijacked a truck and drove it down a busy shopping street, crashing it into a major store. Four people were killed and fifteen injured. The man who did it has claimed ties to Daesh.

While this act is horrible, the aftermath has been nothing short of beautiful. Within minutes of the attack off-duty police who were nearby took charge of the situation and kept people calm, followed shortly by their on-duty colleagues. The transit system was closed down to avoid possible secondary attacks so a lot of people were stranded, but the businesses and people in that area opened their doors wide to anyone in need.

They offered shelter, food, rides home, and phones to call their loved ones. Everything worked really smoothly and since then the city has been bathed in love.

The police have been given flowers and hugs by people wanting to express their gratitude. While there have been some hate mongering from Islamophobic “anti-immigration” types, it has been met with a solid wall of love.

A few days after the attack there was a “manifestation of love” held in a square near where the attack took place and tens of thousands of people gathered to show that we will not let hate beat us.

We will continue showing love and understanding and face darkness and hatred with light and hope. It has been very uplifting to see this in what could have been a very dark hour.

(This is actually a happy story, not an angry one! The fairly new cafe/bakery kitchen I work at is mostly run by young, enthusiastic but non-professional workers. Our boss has encouraged us to try out new recipes we find interesting, and if they sell well they’re added to the menu. On this day I’ve baked an apple and fruit cake that I’ve learnt from my grandma. A customer comes in early, while I’m transferring it onto a plate for the display case, and gasps.)

Customer: “This smell! What is that smell?”

Me: “Probably this fresh-baked cake!” *holding up the plate*

Customer: “I smells like my grandma’s kitchen!”

Me: “Funny enough, it is a recipe from MY grandma.”

(The customer buys a slice of the cake and coffee and returns his dishes when he’s done.)

Customer: “It even tastes like my grandma’s cake. Incredible. Did you steal my grandmother?” *laughs*

Me: *also laughing* “Yep, we have her in the kitchen right now, making more cakes.”

Customer: “Oh, she would’ve probably loved doing that. Sadly, she passed away a few years ago.”

Me: “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry—”

Customer: “No, you couldn’t have known. You made me very happy with this cake today! Thank you!”

(The customer has become a regular, returning once a week to buy a piece of the cake — which has also become a staple in our menu. I have by now given him the recipe, with my boss’ permission, but he still comes in ‘for the feeling of having grandma bake it.’ I love this guy.)

(I grew up in a fairly small town, and all through high school, I worked at a local farm, selling produce at farmer’s markets and roadside stands. It’s only a few days before I leave for college in a much larger city, and I’m worrying about how much it’ll cost to live there, when one of my favorite customers comes up. I suspect he has some sort of developmental delay or had an accident or something, since his speech patterns tend to be very halting and he has trouble focusing his eyes, but he’s always polite and lovely and a pleasure to talk to, so I don’t think much of it. We’re chatting as he chooses what he wants, about $10 worth of produce, and he hands me a twenty-dollar bill.)

Customer: “Do you have singles?”

Me: “Unfortunately, no; it was a busy day today. Are two fives okay?”

Customer: *grinning* “Two fives are fine.”

(I give him his change, and he immediately hands one of the fives back to me.)

Customer: “This is for you. You’re always so friendly and polite when I come here. You don’t make me feel bad, or try to hurry me through what I’m saying. I know you’re leaving soon, and this is my way of saying thank you.”

Me: “You really don’t have to. You’re always so nice; I enjoy it when you come by!”

Customer: “Please, take it. I love coming here; you never make me feel different, or bad. Have a great time at college, and thank you!”

(I’m almost in tears by this point, and I can hardly get out a ‘thank you’ as he collects his vegetables and gives me one last smile. I’ve only seen him a couple times since then, but his kindness made a stressful time so much better!)

(It’s Thanksgiving, which is one of our busiest days of the year, so almost all of the staff has to work. One of our more frequent regulars is coming in. From what I can gather from past interactions with him, he’s a very wealthy person.)

Me: “Good afternoon, sir.”

Customer: “Hey, how’s it going?”

Me: “I’m doing all right. How about you?”

Customer: “Good to hear. Good to hear.”

(He then pulls out his wallet and hands me $20.)

Me: “Wait… are you serious?!”

Customer: “Just wanted to let you guys know you’re doing a great job. Happy Thanksgiving.”

Me: “Wow, thank you! Happy Thanksgiving to you, too!”

(He then proceeded to hand out twenties to the rest of the staff. He even came back the next day to make sure he didn’t miss anyone. He was always a nice guy, but this is above and beyond his usual actions.)

(I have not been having the greatest week. First my car starts throwing out warning lights, and then I get word from my mother that a close family friend, my brother’s godfather, has died unexpectedly.)

Me: “I should really go to the funeral, but I’m not sure I want to take my car out on the highway since it’s been acting up…”

Roommate: “Why don’t you take mine? I got it checked out before I drove home for my grandmother’s funeral a couple months ago, and I’m not going anywhere this weekend except for choir practice.”

Me: “Awesome. Thanks!”

(I get to the church where the funeral is being held and hug my brother’s godmother, who has always been “Aunt” to me and my siblings, although we’re not related. I’m sitting beside her while she looks at the program for the funeral, when all of a sudden she bursts out:)

Aunt: “I told them I didn’t want that hymn, but there it is! [Uncle] hated that hymn! I don’t want it sung at his funeral! What are we going to do now?”

(Suddenly I realize. I have my roommate’s car, which means I have her music books, jncluding the piece she sang for her grandmother’s funeral, which I helped her learn.)

Me: “I think I have something I could put in, [Aunt], If that would be okay with you?”

(It is okay with her, and with the organist, and with everyone at the funeral if I could judge by the number of people wiping their eyes. But the best compliment I got is what my aunt told me afterwards.)

Aunt: “You always loved to sing when you were a little girl, and your voice was okay, but it wasn’t anything terribly special. At least, that’s what I thought. Your uncle always used to tell me, ‘Wait and see. Wait until she grows up. It will be something really amazing then.’ And he was right.”

(That’s when I cried.)