The library books had late fees. 

“Cash only,” the librarian informs me as I rummage through my wallet for a credit card. I count out my supply of dollar bills, nickels, and dimes, barely squeaking out the necessary amount while the librarian looks on in unamused silence. Behind me, my nieces take turns sitting in an overstuffed armchair and hissing at each other to be quiet. At ages 6 and 4, Finley and Maven are experts at two things – being adorable and being wild. 

It’s only day two into this babysitting venture and already I feel myself growing panicked. 

Finally unburdened of my debt, I ask for directions to the computers and printers. I just accepted a new job and there’s paperwork I need to sign and scan pronto. Pointed in the opposite direction, I wrangle up the girls and find another librarian to help me print the documents.

“That’ll be $1.40,” he says, and I grimace.

“Let me guess. Cash only.”

I stare into an empty wallet, turning red as an entire roomful of library patrons stare at me and marvel that I would have the gumption to come to the library without cash. 

A clatter of coins hits the counter right beside me. An older black lady pushes the change toward me then returns to her seat. She’s gone before I can even say thank you, the shape of her shoulders thin and tired. Many of her belongings appear to be in plastic bags at her desk.

Grateful, I pay the fee and take the stack of paperwork to an empty computer station. Being mostly quiet, the girls take turns sitting on my lap and clacking away on the keyboard while I fill out line after line attesting that I haven’t done illicit drugs. 

After a formidable length of time, during which I need additional librarian support to scan back in the documents, I finally nod at Finley and Maven that it’s time to go, secretly thrilled that they haven’t toppled any bookshelves or downloaded a computer virus yet.

First, though, we stop by our rescuer’s desk and say thank you. I turn to go, but she stops me. There’s a torn piece of notebook paper in her hand. On it she’s written a list of hair care products. She looks meaningfully at sweet Finley who is unfailingly beautiful but whose black, wildly curly hair was clearly fixed by her inexperienced aunt this morning.

“I use these on my hair,” she says softly, clearly not wanting to embarrass me further. 

I’m struck by her gentleness and her kindness, but also her fearlessness to step in where she might be of help. I slip the piece of paper into my pocket even though my competent sister has enough hair care products at home to start a salon. 

“Thank you,” I say, really meaning it. And in my heart, I wish to be more like her. Unafraid to get involved. Unafraid to stand up and walk across the room when I see a need. 

I recently asked people to share stories with me of strangers showing unexpected kindness. Each story I received made me smile for a different reason – the lady being treated for cancer who receives a financial gift just at the time of greatest need. The college student given a ride home in the snow. The embarrassed singer comforted by a kind teenager. My pregnant friend who smiles at an elderly woman going into a Hardee’s bathroom and ends up with a trunk full of baby clothes and diapers.  

Sometimes I believe we are tempted to view these “good deeds” as coincidental. It just so happened. But then I hear stories that surpass the realm of happenchance and enter into something more defined. Like my cousin stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire and a man happens to pass by who happens to have the same truck who happens to have a jack in the back of his vehicle that will do the trick.

We all have those stories, whether they rest on the tip of our memory or whether they’ve been muddied through time. I like to call them works of divine orchestration, because they require a certain chemistry of time and place and humanity that defies randomness. 

Sure, some kindnesses require greater specificity than others. It’s easier for me buy your drink at Starbucks than it is for me to offer the plane ticket that miraculously gets Becca Bell to Brazil (true story). But regardless of the details, these stories share a marvelously common thread. 

Action. 

A seeing or hearing of a need and responding. Of making the choice and following through. Often that requires bravery and an embracement of social awkwardness. It requires speaking up. It requires all sorts of things that I am loathe to do when it’s easier to keep my eyes on my shoes rather than give away my seat on the bus. 

I often hear the much-publicized stories of do-gooders lending a hand in heartbreaking situations – local man buys groceries for grandmother who can’t make ends meet for her abandoned grandchildren. Before you know it, there’s a Go-Fund Me campaign with people around the world offering money and support. That’s all well and lovely, but I’m often surprised. Don’t we realize that there’s a similar grandmother who lives in our town? Who feels the same stress and frugal resources but who will never be on the news?

Love your neighbor. I’ve been thinking about this idea constantly lately. Perhaps because everything is so openly broken right now. The entire political spectrum seems hell-bent on being heard and considered correct – spouting aggressive, semi-sarcastic opinions by meme – far more than they care about being loving. About listening. About learning. 

The needs are always there. The neighbors are always there. But do I see them? Am I loving them? If each of us took care of the ones within our sphere, the reach becomes exponential. It’s just good math.

I really do believe that we are created for a singular purpose. To love our Creator. And to go and love as we have been loved. That has felt particularly challenging in 2020. There’s a distance that wasn’t there before, a painful separation. Or maybe it’s a distance that we’ve allowed to grow for years, self-inflicted and unchecked, our neighbors becoming strangers under our very noses. 

In the 1930’s, my grandmother was a poor kid growing up with an absent, alcoholic father and an unwell mother. She used to visit a soda shop in downtown Charleston, West Virginia. The owner told her she could stop by and get a milkshake anytime because her father ran a tab there and they would even up payment later. 

There was never any tab. There was no dad to pay it. So here or there, then or now, soda shop owners or ladies in libraries, I feel confident that there will always be ways to love our neighbors. Opportunities to see needs. Opportunities to respond. 

Even if they don’t really need the hair care products.