The Power of a Small Kindness
Like so many others, I am emotionally weary from a year marked by pandemic loss, social upheaval and the politics of rage. I am frazzled by so much separation and strife. Gravitating toward conversation that is nuanced, rather than that which is often polarized, I discover that I crave quiet. Nevertheless, my commitment to being a courier of encouragements and courtesies—a life-long pledge informed by a childhood encounter—may be at an all-time high.
It was the Reverend Mr. Newton—whose name I’d learned from an elderly neighbor—who first taught me the power of small kindnesses. Five years old at the time, I was a lonely kid in an oversized family. Already looking for a place to “belong,” on one particular summer day I’d ventured from our old, wooden front porch to Mr. Newton’s Mom-and-Pop shop at the corner of the block. And who might you be? the soft-voiced man asked from behind the counter as I stepped inside the cool silence of the room.
A host of wrinkles crisscrossed his face and his skin was as dark as the Folger’s coffee that my mother kept in the red can near our stove. I told him my name and where I lived, and when he realized that I was not lost—but rather just an explorer—he reminded me not to venture toward the street: A truck might not see somebody as big as a nickel like you, he warned. I nodded, but at that moment, all that mattered was to be the only person in Mr. Newton’s store. I had him all to myself.
Cramped and dusty, the space smelled like old newspapers. Soap flakes, bleach and all kinds of canned goods were arranged in order on wooden shelves that reached to the ceiling. Some of the cereal boxes looked as if they’d been placed there at the beginning of time.
After a bit of small talk, Mr. Newton moved with arthritic steps to a battered metal cooler and reached down to pull out an ice-cold bottle with a clatter. KAYO chocolate milk. My favorite. He flipped off the cap and with a laugh and a wink, held it out to me. We both knew I had no money, but I took the drink anyway. And then hesitated. Are you sure? I asked, my words rushing out. You’re O-KAY with KAY-O, Mr. Newton sang back to me.
I took a long swig of the sweet taste. He was right. I felt absolutely okay.
Although I was too young to name it back then, Mr. Newton had gifted me with far more than a bottle of sweet dairy that day. His benevolence had bestowed upon me a sense of worth; a bellyful of good feeling—the memory of which saw me through growing-up years when all I had to fill up on was self-doubt and shame.
Two weeks ago, I was reminded yet again of the impact tokens of kindness could have when I discovered an envelope delivered by hand in my mailbox. It was a note from a therapist colleague whose friendship I still valued; a person with whom I’d worked collaboratively over the course of many years. Debbie, who was approaching a milestone birthday—as well as a landmark number of years working in the mental health field—explained in her card that she wanted to celebrate these watersheds by acknowledging those people who had touched her life in important ways.
What a cool idea! How moved I was—overwhelmed, actually—by such a warm-hearted share. As with the Reverend Mr. Newton’s gesture, and every grace I’ve been granted since, it was a gift all its own: a good turn that honored a friendship and a longstanding membership in the same club.
Some have suggested that the pandemic has transformed the way we think, work and live. If true, I hope that one of the changes we will soon see is tangible evidence of an increased spread of goodwill. What could be easier or more important for humanity? I asked myself again yesterday. Then, as if in response to the note I’d received, I recalled a poem published before the arrival of COVID—one that now seemed prescient. Aptly described as a piece that “…almost feels like another hope we remember having,” I remembered the eloquence of Danusha Laméris’s “Small Kindnesses.” A poem that celebrates graciousness, it ends this way:
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”
Thinking again about those lines, my mind traveled back in time once more. Bubbling up came the image of the Reverend Mr. Newton and his slow smile—and I was struck by a probable truth: like the fleeting temples Laméris described in her verse, the Reverend’s offer of a bottle of chocolate milk occurred in an exchange that took only a blink, a mere moment. Yet, six decades later, with all the changes that have accompanied it, I remember his deed with vividness, and this helps me to remember him.
What does not surprise me, however, is that—though fatigued by all our modern and complex difficulties—I nevertheless feel an uptick in my desire to be a courier like the Reverend: someone who readily reaches a hand toward another; someone who offers a gift that another might not have expected to receive. It is my own face I see, that of the young girl I had been. Once again, I wish to be the child who remembers the sweet taste of kindness. And how powerful that sort of kindness can be.
Best,
