Yule Fuel

I’m a delivery man. I bring stuff to your doorstep. If there’s no visible house number it casts me into the role of wise man, searching for signs and wonders. I found the dahlia lady’s house, even without the blooming flowers, but to my wonderment I discovered she was weeping as she washed her Cadillac. I’m not prone to empathy for the well-to-do, maybe you are, but I couldn’t see any red for her social position that matched the redness in her eyes.

She apologized profusely, multiple times, for showing her tears to a stranger. Because I have been around kind people I kinda knew I should stand there and just listen. She never revealed the private matter that so grieved her, no need. The issue was to somehow guard the privilege of witnessing her unguarded moment.

She mentioned she and her husband were discussing what changes the world would see if folks practiced a random act of kindness every day. “Compassion is the fuel of courage,” I told her thinking I was quoting some famous person instead of making something up. She let me hold her hands, wrapped in kitchen gloves and dripping car soap. Not knowing her faith, but sensing her heart, I prayed silently while the sun, absent for weeks it seemed, bathed her driveway in the brightest blue.

Random kindness is a human explanation for divine appointments. The wise among us will recognize them, the rest of us can watch the sky to see whom His star settles on as we make our way to the manger.