Authentic Kindness: Tuesday's Reflection

"I need to cancel the current and all future prescriptions for my father."

I stood at the pharmacy counter in our local Target Express. I was wearing my mask, of course, as was the pharmacist on duty. We could see only each other's eyes. 

"I can do that for you," he said, and then asked for my father's birthdate. "Has he transferred his account someplace else?"

"No," I said. "No, he hasn't."

What followed was silence. 

I said nothing more. I offered no explantation.

His eyes flickered. I could feel him wondering if he should ask me for more information. More than likely corporate Target would want to know why I would no longer be getting my father's prescriptions from Target. Was I transferring them to CVS or Walgreens? Was I unhappy with Target's service?

Instead, after a brief pause, he looked directly into my eyes and said, "I will handle that."

I am sure he assumed my father had died. He hasn't yet, but how grateful I was that I didn't have to give any explanation about how he is dying, but no longer taking any of the few drugs that have been prescribed. 

This felt like an act of authentic kindness to me. This young man made a decision to be present to me. I don't think he was avoiding a difficult conversation, but instead, I felt seen by him. How grateful I was. 

I remember reading a question someplace--sorry I don't know where--"How would God like to mother me today?" I felt mothered in that moment. That young man was the presence of God for me in our brief encounter. 

Another story.

Everyday I check in at the front desk of the independent living facility where my father lives. I come about the same time each morning. After filling out the screening information sheet, the receptionist, whose title is more fancy than that, "the concierge," takes my temperature. And in her perky fashion, she says, "Have a nice day."

I want to say to her. "Sure. I'll do my best, even though my father is dying." But, instead, I say, "Thanks. You, too."

And then when I leave many hours later, if she is still there, she says, "Have a nice evening." "Thanks. You, too."

I am sure she has been trained to be upbeat. I don't think she is unfeeling or uncaring, but I am surprised that she has never asked anything about why I am there or who my loved one is or how he is doing or how I am doing. Not asking may be the way she is able to maintain her own balance during this stressful time, and I realize she risks her own health by being there.  

However, our interactions do not feel authentic to me. We have missed an opportunity for connection, even with the barrier of our masks. I don't feel touched by kindness as I make my way through the long corridor to my Dad's apartment. Should I attempt to close the gap between us? After all, I know nothing about her life. 

That feels like more than I am capable of doing right now, but I am aware of how meaningful the look of kindness offered by the young pharmacist meant to me. 

Perhaps I can for one brief moment be the presence of God for her. Maybe she needs to be mothered, too. 

                  



                  

                  In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, 
                  we can hear the whisper of the heart giving
                  strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope
                  to despair.   Howard Thurman

An Invitation

When have you received the gift of authentic kindness? When have you offered authentic kindness? I would love to know.