Category: Stories from My Life

How Your Little Kindnesses Make Big Impact in Life

Photo by JW, Unsplash.

I was often the shortest kid in my classes at school. Since my birthday was in the summer, I was usually one of the youngest as well. And since I was also insecure and shy, it just made sense that I would be a lackey to another kid who was more of a leader. 

So, at age six, attending an international school in Hong Kong, I was a weak-willed follower of a charismatic, taller, lovely bully (I’ll call her Lana) who domineered my recess times and dictated my interactions with the other kids for many months. 

(We finally broke off our relationship when I stood up to her one day and she then punched me ferociously in the stomach, but that’s another story.)

During the course of my friendship with Lana, for no discernable reason that I can fathom, a boy in one of the older classes (4 grades above mine) took an interest in Lana and me. During recess he would often stroll over (looking very tall to my eyes) to where we were, to say hello and chat with us (specifically me) in a friendly way. 

His name was Ben, and his kind face and friendly questions were deeply surprising to me, since I had not imagined that I was worth the notice or time of anyone in any of the older classes. 

After the first startling encounter and initial suspicious thoughts (Why is this older boy talking to me? Is he trying to make fun of me in some way?), I began to relax, feeling that he was safe, that I could trust his kindness. 

Lana kept a tight control on our interactions, however, and I don’t recall any conversation with him that she didn’t attempt to control.

Once, near the Christmas holidays, two cards were delivered to our class by someone from the upper grades – one for Lana, and one for me. I had no idea who would have sent me a card, and was thrilled and delighted when I opened it and saw it was from Ben, wishing me a happy Christmas. 

When Ben found us on the playground later that week, and asked if we had received his cards, I looked up and said, “Yes!” I don’t remember if I said thank you, but I wanted to. 

Lana, however, jabbed me in my side, narrowed her eyes at me, and quickly lied, “No, we haven’t!” and I looked at her, startled, but was afraid to contradict her and risk her anger. So I weakly parroted, “No, we haven’t…”

Ben, looking displeased and disappointed, said directly to me, “You don’t have to do everything she says, you know,” and then walked away. I was embarrassed and sorry. I don’t think he ever spoke to me after that. 

That term was his last at our school, and I never saw him again. But I have always remembered him. 

Ben’s seemingly small, insignificant kindnesses to me were not small or insignificant.

Having a stranger demonstrate that I had value and merited time and kindness – through no effort of my own – was deeply impactful in a season where I felt unseen and of little worth. 

He had no way of knowing that at that time in my life, my parents were going through significant marital trouble, and my home life was unsettled and tense. Lana’s friendship was conditional and I was constantly afraid of displeasing her. I had no other close friends.  

Whether or not Ben knew it, I believe God used him to show me His love in that time. And I will always remember it with sincere gratitude.

We often carry hidden hurt places and unseen heavy burdens. It is not always the big things that bring solace, but the little kindnesses that can give the strength to take another step, another breath, to get through the hard of each day.

It’s important that you and I remember to not trivialize the potential impact of the little things we do.

The smiles we give, the kind words we say, the small graces and little gifts of attention and love – these can be immensely powerful and deeply life-giving to the hearts and lives we touch – whether our own family or perfect strangers. 

We may never truly know or understand the repercussions of our actions, but the Father of us all sees and knows – and He may be placing us exactly where we are to be His gentle hands, His whispered kindness, His smiling eyes to the broken and aching people around us. 

(Ben, thank you. I felt God’s love in your kindness. I’m sorry it’s taken over thirty years to tell you. I pray for you to this day.)

“And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’” (Matthew 25:40, NLT)

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Elmo in the Doghouse: Murder, Mystery, and Squawks in the Night

(A true story)

            It was a dark and windy night, clouds scudding rapidly across the moonless sky. The mango trees creaked, while the palmetto’s fan-like leaves scraped and rustled in the gusts of wind. Inside the house, our family was quiet and subdued as we prepared for bed. There had been several unsolved murders recently, and justice had to be done.

            My dad’s chicken house had been broken into twice in the past few days, with two feathered victims left bloodied and dead, despite his taking extra caution to check for openings for predators and lock it up at night. There was only one suspect: My sister’s old orange-and-white cat, Elmo.

            After the double murders, my dad had caught sight of Elmo unwisely lurking around the scene of the crime, during the hours the door was left open for the hens to wander and scratch in the yard. He had been seen standing below the open door, poised as if to jump inside the coop, but had quickly darted away when he saw my dad come out on the porch. He had been known to try to stalk the chickens in the past (granted, without any success, since they were about as large as he was), and Dad was quick to point out Elmo’s guilty, furtive air that he had worn the past week. The theory was that he was getting old and bloodthirsty, sneaky and able to kill but unable to devour his victims. To my dad, there was no doubt: Elmo needed to be humanely and quickly put down before more innocent chicken lives were ruthlessly taken.

            In our family, any of our animals that took the life of another of our animals was quickly dispatched, usually by my dad, in the form of an appointment with a shotgun in the back corral. Elmo was our family’s oldest surviving pet in our home in the tropics, and despite his grumpy ways, was generally viewed with fondness and affection. Until now.

            Elmo the cat was finding himself decidedly in the doghouse.

            During the family court held that night, with my dad as prosecutor, jury, and judge, there was only a slim chance for Elmo. But my sister and I quickly appointed ourselves the defendant’s attorneys, and pled for a delay of execution due to lack of evidence. We said that if there was another such incident and Elmo was indeed caught as perpetrator, we would no longer stand between him and a justly deserved death sentence. We only asked for at least a week’s reprieve or till a more thorough investigation could be done. Our dad, torn between wanting vengeance for his chickens and upholding unbiased justice, reluctantly agreed.

            For the next few days, Elmo, sensing the grim skepticism of my dad toward his innocence, only added to his tarnished reputation by being excessively slinky and furtive. We kids kept a sharp lookout for any convicting behavior, but everything was quiet. Very quiet.

The tension grew.

            My parents’ room was closest to the chicken coop, and each night my dad would lie in bed awake, listening for any sound of a poultry commotion, silently daring the cat to try his luck one more time. Each morning, we children would anxiously ask if anything had happened in the night, holding our breath till we heard that Elmo was still on probation.

            Then, one night as my parents were getting ready for bed, my dad heard it: a squawking and fluttering, and a loud agitated scuffling from the chicken house. This was it! At last, if he could get there in time, the culprit would be brought to full justice!

            Without pausing to pull on pants, my dad thundered out of the house in only his white briefs. The door slammed behind him as he pounded down the porch, jumped the steps, and charged up the lawn in the windy night toward the chicken house. Reaching the coop, he barely slowed before flinging open the back door of the coop that had been somehow pushed ajar. The chickens were squawking, thrashing about, and screeching with such noise my dad’s approach was unnoticed by the killer within.

            Reaching in, he grabbed the furry beast in the midst of attacking the chickens, and in righteous indignation, holding Elmo fiercely by the scruff of his neck, began spanking him, saying through gritted teeth: “Bad cat! Bad cat!”

            Suddenly, my dad smelled a rank and fetid odor. It appeared to emanate from the creature he had assumed was Elmo. He stopped, and, holding up the animal carefully in the dim light, was stunned to see that he had been spanking a large, dirty-gray, wild possum. The possum, startled and immobile, gazed back at him in shock.

            By this time, my mom had followed him outside and was standing on the porch, peering across the wind-swept, dark yard. She saw him standing stock still next to the chicken coop, clad only in his underwear, holding something out at arms’ length. She called out, “What is it?”

“A possum!” He yelled back, with some consternation. “What do I do with it?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, starting to laugh at the odd question. “Just throw it away!”

            Dad carried the possum off into the night, far away from the chicken coop and over toward the fence of our property, where he chucked it into the bushes. Then he returned to latch up the chicken coop again, and head back to the house to shower and get in bed, both relieved and somewhat chagrined to have the case closed in this unexpected way.

            The next morning we children were delighted to hear that Elmo had been fully exonerated and his innocence reestablished. He was indeed now out of the doghouse. His expression that morning might have been interpreted as slightly relieved to be off the threat of death row (but then, cats are usually somewhat inscrutable).

            As for the possum, we never saw it again, possibly due to its permanent shock at being the recipient of a spanking when it was just trying to snag a free chicken dinner. My dad later found a small gap in the slats next to the chicken coop door that had allowed the predator access, and after it was fixed everyone slept with far greater serenity.

Especially the chickens.