It was just after the New Year and my resolutions were still elbowing me in the ribs. My alarm sounded and I groaned in anticipation of the next hour: don my workout attire; wake my darlings; load us into the cold car for a cold drive across our cold town. My boys were on board with this plan; their support of my exercise efforts paid dividends—gym class for Mom = donuts for them.
The man standing in front of us in line at Dunkin’ Donuts was wearing mud-caked steel-toed boots and a hardhat. I’m not sure if it was the unruly enthusiasm of my toddler or the sweet compliance of my preschooler that got his attention. But when the cashier asked this man if he’d like to add anything else to his order, he glanced over his shoulder at us and told her he’d like to buy our order, as well. He offered me no explanation, like, “your boys remind me of my grandsons,” or “I just wanted you to feel seen today.” He barely made eye contact as he whisked out of the shop and into his work truck. His random act of kindness warmed the coldest of mornings and set my heart ablaze.
A few Thursday mornings later, after my gym class, I debated using the donut drive-thru. My boys’ pleas to eat their donut NOW instead of taking it home prevailed, so we found ourselves standing in line at Dunkin’ Donuts once again. It was Valentine’s Day and the donuts were pink and red and heart-shaped. The cashier totaled our order and asked if that would be all. I glanced over my shoulder and motioned to the man in line behind us and said, “you can add this gentleman’s order to ours, as well.” “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I smiled at the man. He was in his mid-seventies, I surmised, with graying hair and glasses. His eyes welled with tears and his lower lip quivered and he said, “you couldn’t possibly know what this means to me…today is the first day I have left my house since my wife died a couple weeks ago.” “Oh my goodness,” I replied. I asked the man if he was planning on eating his donut here or taking it to go. He said he had planned on eating it here. “Will you join us?” I asked him. “Sure.”
We found a table for four and positioned my boys across from each other. I sat across from the man and we introduced ourselves. Mr. Gary’s eyes were still wet with tears when I invited him to share more of his story. He had been married for over 50 years. His eyes sparkled as he spoke of his wife. He explained that the last several months had been difficult for her due to health complications. She had difficulty climbing the stairs and even greater difficulty sleeping. She had started using their guest bedroom on the main floor so she wouldn’t have to go up and down the stairs. They had spent the entire day together, sharing meals and laughs and conversation. He kissed her goodnight and climbed the stairs to their bedroom. When he came downstairs the next morning, he found her hunched over the bathtub, dead.
Miraculously, my boys were quiet and still while Mr. Gary talked. They didn’t pester me or make crumbs or spill their milk. (I later thanked God for this precious gift.) I shook my head and kept repeating, “Oh my goodness. I am so sorry. I am so, SO sorry.” His eyes had been fixed downward as he folded and unfolded and folded the corner of his napkin. But then he lifted his gaze and fixed his eyes on me and said, “nothing like this has ever happened to me before. How could have you known? I don’t believe in stuff like this, but I am starting to think you’re some kind of an angel.” I smiled. “Well,” I said, “I DO believe in stuff like this and I believe our paths were meant to cross today. What are you doing next Thursday morning?” I gave him my phone number and told him to please call if he needed anything at all, or if he wanted another donut date the following week.
My boys asked questions our entire drive home: who is Mr. Gary? Why was he crying? Do you know him? Where does he live? And then Zach: Did you buy his donut because that other man bought ours a couple weeks ago? I thought about Mr. Gary every day the following week and prayed for him every night. Thursday morning rolled around and, having not heard from Mr. Gary, I decided to skip my gym class. I didn’t want to potentially miss his call. My boys and I still loaded up that morning and headed across town. I took my phone off ‘silent mode’ which I never EVER do, hopeful that Mr. Gary would call. My phone rang with an unrecognizable number. “Hello, this is Monica,” I answered. “Hi Monica, it’s Gary. I was just wondering if you’d like to meet me for a donut.”
***
It has been one year since meeting Mr. Gary. He and I have had numerous donut dates. He has joined our family for lunch, gotten to know Eric and our boys, met my parents and even came to one of Zach’s baseball games last Fall. We got together this week for our “one year anniversary” donut date. He spoke his usual refrain: I still can’t make sense of what happened last year. I wasn’t even planning on leaving my house that day, but decided to go get a donut. I don’t know if I believe in all this stuff. (He gestured his hand in a circular motion and pointed upward.) But I do know that you rescued me.
***
A construction worker set these wheels in motion. Maybe he was paying forward a bit of random kindness that had been bestowed upon him weeks earlier. Or maybe he was responding to an internal nudging from God to slow down, take notice and lean in. I’ve given our story a lot of thought and consideration over these many months. While my kindness might have made an impact on Mr. Gary’s life, he has unknowingly taught me a thing or two, as well. Like what it means to truly pause and look beyond my own circumstances, timetables and to-do lists. He has reminded me of the universal language of human connection—a language that is seldom spoken anymore. Can you imagine if we each found a “Mr. Gary?” Maybe it would help create a world where acts of kindness were more than just random.
Dramatic Paddocks 