In my weekly newsletter today I shared the following story and received wonderful feedback, so I wanted to share here on my blog, too. 

I saw him shuffling his way across the pavement to the volunteer, box of treasures in hand.

I had just pulled up to the back of the building, there for the same purpose, dropping off some items I no longer needed at our local Saint Vincent De Paul’s.

As I stepped out of the car, he must have noticed the dog decals on my back window and said, “Are you donating some dog’s?”

“No,” I said smiling, knowing he was kidding. “Not a chance!”

I sensed he didn’t recognize me right away as he handed his small box of items to the volunteer.

But I remembered him from meeting him several times at our neighbors when they’d have a party or I’d run into him now and then at the post office. Dave, always a great sense of humor, and he often talked about his bird.

I first got to know his wife, Karin. She was very supportive of my work with Frankie and my writing, often sending me sweet notes of encouragement in the mail.

I said, “How’s your parrot?”

It was as if a light of recognition went on. He smiled and began chatting happily about the bird he has had for over 30 years.

And then without warning he began to cry.

“I miss Karin so much,” he sobbed.

Karin died a little over a year ago. I read about it in the paper and was in shock as it seemed so sudden.

And it was. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at age 79 and died within three months.

Dave, now 85-years old, struggling to move through his days without the woman he fell in love with when he was just a young man.

He turned to walk away, still overcome with tears. “I can’t believe I’m crying. I feel so silly.”

Walking quickly up behind him I said, “Don’t go. Let me give you a hug.” I embraced him with all my might trying to convey my empathy for what he is going through.

And I let him talk through his wave of grief. And pretty soon his sense of humor returned and we eventually parted ways.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about him all the way home. I worried that I had done enough. Was there more I could have done? My heart ached for him.

And then Tuesday in the mail was a card with his return address.

Inside, a thank you card.

In his shaky handwriting he wrote:
“Barbara!”

And on a sticky label was typed:

“The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the
grandest intention.”

He signed it, “Thank you, Dave”

Now it was my turn to shed a few tears. That small gesture of a hug and listening was all he needed in that moment.

It was enough.

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