Why I Choose Kindness
Life lessons from the old man in my pocket
The Old Man in My Pocket
I carry a bronze figurine of an old man in my pocket. The old man is my daily companion, offering perspective and a reminder to reflect on my life.
The old man is my 100-year-old self.
I just turned 50. The average human lifespan is 79. Even with grace and luck, I’ve lived more years than I have left.
I imagine myself, the 100-year-old man, rocking back and forth on my front porch, viewing the landscape of my life. There are hills and valleys, shadow and light, and my lemonade is both bitter and sweet.
The questions are clear.
“Who have I been along this journey? Where did I place my attention? What did I value and prioritize? What did I pass on to my children, grandchildren, and future generations? What did I regret?”
“How did I choose to live?”
You Are Loved, and I’m Glad You’re Here
I took my family on a vacation to Blue Ridge, Georgia. As the air grew cooler and the land elevated, I said, “I read that these mountains started forming 400 million years ago.”
We stayed silent for a while, looking out the window at a wilderness born long before we arrived, which will remain long after we’re gone. Blue mist rose from the oaks as the two-lane road wound into downtown. We parked and walked around, exploring the shops and restaurants.
Aside from enjoying my family and the beauty of the place, two experiences struck chords that have resonated in my life ever since.
Walking down Main Street, the smell of buttered popcorn wafted through the air.
A sign in a store window caught my attention. It said, “YOU ARE LOVED” in capital letters.
I thought,
If people allowed this message into their hearts, it would change the world.
How many anxieties and fears would soften if we knew, truly knew, we were loved?
We entered the store, the shopkeeper’s bells jangling against the glass door. The clerk greeted us in a way I’ve never forgotten,
“I’m glad you’re here.”
The words resounded with sincerity. I melted on the spot.
Years later, I display a “YOU ARE LOVED” sign in my office window, reminding myself and others of this truth — although only those who slow down and pay attention notice it.
Due to a country store clerk in Blue Ridge, Georgia, whom I met for less than five seconds, I now find myself saying, “I’m glad you’re here,” and meaning it whenever I have the chance.
I choose love.
Japan
My parents returned from a vacation in Japan. The trip was meaningful because my father had served in the Air Force in Tachikawa and had dreamed of taking my mother there.
Our family gathered around the dining room table, eager to hear about their journey.
My parents walked Shibuya Crossing, slurped traditional ramen, shot Pachinko balls, danced to the music at Yoyogi Park, sampled sushi at Tsukiji Fish Market, cheered on the Yomiuri Giants, and sat at the feet of the Grand Buddha in Kyoto.
But, it wasn’t these adventures my parents recounted first.
My parents had endured two 12-hour flights across the North Pacific and visited places most people don’t experience in a lifetime. But, more than anything, they wanted to share a story that took place in a crowded Tokyo subway station.
As we snacked on senbei rice crackers and savored the green tea they brought home from the trip, they said,
“After a long day of sightseeing, we needed to catch a train. We noticed a Japanese man, eating tempura with chopsticks at a restaurant. We didn’t want to interrupt his meal but asked for directions out of necessity. The man smiled, folded his napkin, and walked us through the buzzing throngs of humanity to our platform. Then, he made sure we boarded the train safely.”
Why did the man forgo his lunch? How did he make such an impact on my parents? He must have empathized. He must have considered what it would feel like to be lost and under pressure in an unfamiliar country and opened his heart.
From that day forward, I’ve always tried to put myself in others’ shoes and go the extra mile to be of service.
I choose empathy.
Kindness Takes Many Forms
As a first-year counselor, I served as the commencement announcer for the elementary school graduation.
Excited anticipation filled the air as proud families and friends packed the auditorium, waiting to honor their loved one’s rite of passage.
The principal finished her opening address and called me to the lectern. One by one, the students approached, handed me their presentation cards, and I called out their names to the beaming crowd.
After the last student crossed the stage, I congratulated the parents, patted myself on the back, and gathered my belongings to head home.
The principal called me over. She leaned in and spoke with authority.
She asked, “Did you check the pronunciation of each name?”
I said, “No, why? I thought I was spot on.”
“Well, you weren’t spot on because you mispronounced a young lady’s name, and neither she nor her family will ever have that moment back.”
I crossed my arms and hoisted my shields, bracing myself to deflect the blame.
Didn’t she hear all the names I pronounced correctly? Doesn’t she see how hard I’m working, all the sweat and hours I pour into this school?
It turns out she did see those things. However, she needed to see thorough preparation and the effort required for excellence. So, she instructed me to confirm each pronunciation next time and practice well before the ceremony.
Initially, I assumed a defensive posture. I thought my principal had put me down.
Why can’t she see me?
Instead, she saw me more clearly than I had been able to see myself. Rather than accepting less than I was capable of, she extended her kindness by committing to my growth and demanding my best.
Kindness is not always hugs and smiles. Although it may not be easy or appear nice, it is for the best interest of the recipient.
I have arrived well-prepared for every ceremony since.
I choose kindness.
Socks at Sundown
Bundled in our winter coats at sundown, barbecue smoke mingled with the clouds, and tents spread across the lakeside like a patchwork quilt. My wife and I were picnicking near the campgrounds where the Boy Scouts readied themselves for a night hike.
At the table next to us, a father reprimanded his ten-year-old boy.
“You have to plan for a hike, son,” he says.
“I thought I put ’em in my pack, Dad.”
“Then double-check next time. You’d be in a world of hurt on the trail with no socks. We’ll need to call this one off for tonight.”
The boy lowered his head in silence.
He’s learned a life lesson, but he and his father will miss an opportunity.
Crickets sang. Children laughed in the distance. Stars shimmered in the crisp night air.
My wife sat on the cold wooden bench, removed both her socks, and offered them to the boy.
Then, we held each other close, watching father, son, and their scout troupe disappear into the forest.
I choose compassion.
Here I Am
Here I am, and this is my life.
I ponder how each inspired human being in these vignettes will never know how they changed my life.
I run my fingertips across the contours of the old man in my pocket, feeling the weight of his presence.
He asks me, “How shall you live?”
I tell him, “I choose love, empathy, kindness, and compassion, and the time to act is now.”
