What is the last thing you learned?

Yesterday I was in the market and I saw an elderly couple turn toward an aisle. The woman kept a pace that the man could not match. He was pushing the cart, and his cane was inside the cart, which he had to push with both hands. I was almost behind him as I passed the aisle, headed for checkout.

I said, “Hello, sir. How are you today?”

He paused and answered, “Okay, how are you?” His voice made me stop. Usually, people have exchanges like this, and as such, I would have said, “Fine, thank you, sir. Have a good day.” I would have moved on quickly. Well, I would have kept going, but not quickly. I, too, use a cane. He raised the handle of his and said, “I’m about to…” I couldn’t make out the rest, but his voice when he answered my query as to how he was held some quality of gratitude. An almost lonely tone turned to joy that someone had noticed and greeted him. Here was a man who knew little happiness. I get fast with that kind of perception; I myself know how it feels all too well. I try to put on a good show in public, though, as being positive for a few minutes doesn’t cost me anything, and it can, on occasion, make others feel better. Thinking that I have done that, well, in my life, which I’ve told you has been so full of pain? Making someone feel cared for, happy, or positive, those things give and have given me the most positive and good feelings I’ve ever known. With my children gone, if I have nothing else, nobody else, then showing kindness is good medicine.

I asked the man, “You wanna race?”

He chuckled but said sadly, “Not today.”

“You have a nice day, sir,” I said, and with a lighter voice, he said, “Thank you. You, too.”

It took seconds. I knew, though, that his wife hadn’t heard the exchange. I think that made a difference to him. I don’t believe that she has much patience with him.

I’ll never forget him. Ever. I finally did get wet cheeks later, the good kind of tears that only come when something special, however slight or brief, takes place between people.

I wonder what he’s like. What life has done to him. I know he’s in pain on the outside, but I doubt that others ever notice his emotional pain or question where it comes from. These are things others shield themselves from, and that’s a crying shame. It shouldn’t be like that.

But it is.

I’ve made the unforgivable mistake many times of taking the silence of others personally. Whenever I did, I regretted it. Mostly because I was wrong most of the time. So, I’ve developed the determination of being patient and waiting for the right moment, then initiating a quick conversation. I usually just ask, “How are you?” I don’t know how, but most can sense that my question is not casual: I really want to know the answer. I want to hear it. And I’ll gladly listen to complaints, stories, recent experiences, anything. I’m sincerely interested. I care.

The fact is, being an asshole is easy, but the price is too high. I remember 8th grade at a junior high school in Pasadena, Maryland. I was in drawing and painting class. On the first day, we had to do a still life. Pencil work was old stuff to me. I remember there was a propped up guitar with no strings as part of the composition, but not the rest. The teacher, whose name escapes me (although I do remember others), walked around the classroom, checking out our work. When he got to me, he cried, “Farm out!” It was good. Really good. A girl across from me at the next table asked me to hold it up and show her.

At that time, I was nothing but a shy (more like petrified and socially dysfunctional) abused little kid who hated compliments and praise. I hated myself. I couldn’t imagine deserving notice or praise.

Her name was Nancy St. Cyr, a beautiful girl with flaming red hair, and I certainly couldn’t talk to pretty girls. I said, “Go someplace,” which was ’70s politically correct slang for ‘Go to Hell.’

The incredibly intense hurt was shown instantly in her eyes, replaced by hate in seconds. She never spoke to, nor looked at, me again, which still grieves me to this day. Once done, an act of brutality, in word or deed, may never be forgiven. I did not blame her. I still don’t. But I’d give anything to be able to apologize. We just don’t get a lot of second chances, especially when we’re assholes.

I don’t know if God ever forgave me. Sometimes, we cause so much pain that we wonder about that. It is a hurt for us that can’t be healed.

This may make you wonder if I’m a bit more kind and sensitive now because I feel the need to do penance. Well, of course I feel the need, but that’s not why. I got sick of being a cause of pain. I’ve been in pain since I can remember riding in a stroller. Pain. Terror. Then CPTSD because abuse leaves weeping, open wounds that cannot be healed until God brings us back with new bodies. I don’t know much about forgiveness, but I do believe that God counts our every tear, hears every cry of pain, and every prayer. In the meantime, I can’t take my own sins away by doing anything. I just know I need to get back to the narrow road that I left so long ago. I also know that won’t make my life any better. I’ll still be in pain. I’ll still have the regrets of the past. I’ll still remember Nancy St. Cyr and her look of pain. Of all the people I’ve hurt since 8th grade, I don’t remember one of them looking at me like that.

But I’m small, and my part of this universe is too tiny to measure.

Out there. In the world. It is horrible. People do things that others can scarce imagine. A decent person does not have the capacity to picture war crimes. Crimes against humanity. Slavery or mass murder. The constant horror of being terrorized.

It’s all happening right now. It has never stopped. It won’t stop until God’s intervention happens.

But there is still kindness. There is still decency. In a conversation between two old men in a grocery store, with one showing respect, interest, and sincere care to another, there is more that is holy than there is in five years of Joel Osteen’s “sermons.”

Keep the faith. When it is weak, seek the crepuscule: that short time of the day after sunset but before dark, when the reds, oranges, yellows, and purples are painted just above the horizon and a hush seems to fall around you as the day gets closer to leaving.0

The day may hold stress, the night loneliness, but twilight is like God saying, “You like my painting tonight? Remember when you were in art class? It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, so don’t forget me.”

I’m about to turn an age I never thought I’d ever see. And unlike the song, I have no worries about being fed or needed. It’ll just be another day.

I’m fine with that. Because that means I’ll do something nice for someone. I just learned that. I can be nice any time I want to. Whether you want to or not is up to you. I have had enough of dealing out pain. I have too many ghosts for that. I can’t make them go away, but God willing, I won’t pick up any more.