A Random Act of Kindness: The Caritas Day that Almost Wasn’t

This year I had a goal, a mission if you will. “Perform an act of random kindness in the spirit of Caritas Day”. 

I had heard the university was organizing volunteers to help our “Sisters of Charity” run a soup kitchen. I figured that would be a decent way to "give back" to the community and expand my social circle. I e-mailed in my "request" to volunteer and was informed that I would be put on a waiting list. 

A waiting list? Really? These must have been some popular nuns.

I waited out the rest of the week for any confirmation, eager that my “waitlisted” status would be bumped up to "legit volunteer". In one last effort I emailed the organizers the night before leaving my contact information in case they needed anyone last minute.

Alas, I awoke on Caritas Day hopeful and ready to help those in need.  I would spend two solid hours connecting with different people while growing an appreciation for the things in my life and becoming one with the Mount Community. I'd be singing “Kumbaya” in a drum circle and weaving flowers through my hair by the end of the day!

But I waited and waited for a call that never came. With nothing left to do I decided to head to the gym and work it out. I would release my frustration and come up with a new game plan.

En route, I began thinking of creative ways I could help others and be of some assistance. The gym I frequent is inside of a large grocery store which is always decorated with seasonal displays and eye catching feature items. Normally these items are stacked to create all sorts of 3D shapes like cubes and pyramids. What if I "accidentally" knocked one down and then helped put the entire thing back together?! Simple, devious, it had potential … but only if I didn't get caught.

Lost in the rhythm of the tunes swimming through my head and the consistent pace of the treadmill, I started thinking of old adages, things my mom used to say when I was a child. "Charity begins at home", she'd warn me. This was code for, “You had better help your brother with those dishes.” Over the years I had come to understand that this meant you should take care of those closest to you before attempting to save the rest of the world. Who could I help in my nearby surroundings?

Neighbours! Since moving in last August I honestly don't think I'd said more than two words to mine. I would do something nice for them. Maybe even buy ... something that wasn't awkward?

As I gathered my things to leave, I began to become more and more disillusioned with the thought. I didn't like the idea of such a premeditated gesture. It didn't seem genuine and I'd rather my neighbours not think I was bribing them with a kit kat bar (which is about all I could afford at the time) to shovel my walkway.

“This is what it’s come to …” I thought, as I tried to push past harried shoppers. I was going to have to pull a random act of kindness out of thin air and I couldn't even think of one with all of the noise going on around me. A little girl in a violet, button-up coat was screaming at the top of her lungs while her grandmother was moving ahead slowly whilst trying to comfort her. It felt like she couldn’t be moving any slower as I trailed her impatiently. The doors were less than two metres away. Maybe I could sneak around them and dash for freedom on the outside.

Before I could put my plan into action the sliding doors separated as a gust of wind welcomed itself inside and tore the scroll-like receipt from the old lady’s nimble fingers. Instinctively, I traced its path and darted in its direction. With its length and curls, it resembled a sly, slithering, snake whose movements I couldn't anticipate. Just one step - one more until I'd have it in my grasp.

In the instant I clutched it from the brink of becoming trash, I could already see that it had suffered minor tear and was not intact. As I carefully handed it back, she looked at me over her glasses, sandwiched her small, withered hands around mine and curled her lips into a smile as she barely whispered, "Thank you ".

I gave myself a fist pump, as is customary in these situations. Finally! Random act of kindness completed! It was amazing that something so simple could make me feel this great and renew a sense of hope in myself and in others.

So what if it hadn’t been a grand sweeping gesture? The more I thought about it, I began to realize that we often trivialize simple kindness like opening doors or saying thank you until we take them for granted. Meanwhile we wait for lofty, fleeting acts to prove that others really care.

The Marvelous Misadventures of ...

I took a deep breath as I searched my surroundings for even the smallest sense potential comfort to get through the next eight hours. From the blue, chequered carpet material covering floor to ceiling, I could tell that every luxury had been spared. Just the simple basics - it was a Greyhound bus after all.

I was seated towards the back. Not the very back, but middle-ish back. This way there was enough room to take in everyone and everything. I was travelling with my folks from Charleston, South Carolina up to Richmond, Virginia in style. 

Mom fidgeted beside me, oblivious as always. "Hawaaa, I don't have a headphone jack!"
"Yes, you do, mom," I sighed, as I demonstratively pulled away her coat, purse, snack bag and miscellaneous items to reveal the jack on her side of our shared armrest. She settled in to watch the choice B-movie on the small, rounded screens above us. Dad was across the aisle, pointing out “fun facts” about the landscape we were rolling through.

I spent the next few hours listening to the sweet sounds of my iPod when we came to an unexpected stop outside of an old wooden gas station that had been white-washed at least 20 years ago. As the bus painfully crawled to a halt mom jumped at the chance to use the bathroom and dad took the opportunity to stretch his legs outside. Being accustomed to laziness and immobility on trans-continental flights, I remained seated.

There seemed to be a lot of commotion around the side of the bus. I quickly pressed my face up against the hand-print-stained window and saw a line-up of men and women dressed in white t-shirts and faded green khakis with too many pockets. They were laughing and smiling with bright eyes as they shoved bags underneath the bus. As far as I was concerned more people equaled a lack of fresh air and the potential for some interesting and unpleasant smells. 

I stared intently as they boarded. Where would they sit? Would they disperse in small clusters or take over an entire section? They inched closer and closer in unison, like a worm that’s legs must follow its head. They edged past and situated themselves in the remaining rows behind me.

The sound of the congested bus engine starting up caused everyone to scramble back into their seats.
"Where did all these people come from?" mom gestured. Dad, our go-to-guy, had gotten the scoop from his fellow leg-stretchers. The addition to our troop was a gang of "miscreants on their way home,” he casually explained.

For those of you who aren't neuroscientists, like dad, I will give you the thesaurus.com definition of miscreant: Delinquent, evildoer, con, fugitive ... criminal.

Ummm what? Sitting right behind me?

I imagined each of them hiding the shackles around their feet with those faded green khakis they had probably stolen from the Gap. And now they were using loud banter to hide the clanging of the rusty metal.

You have to understand - this was Greyhound, pre-beheadings. There weren’t any safety protocols in place that I knew of. Hundreds of questions kept running through my mind:
Who were these criminals?
Where had they come from?
What were they capable of?
Have they been rehabilitated?

As a kid, I had always thought my dad was the strongest person in the world and would always protect me from robbers and strange noises. Unfortunately, the biological phenomenon of puberty, particularly height, managed to erase those illusions some years ago. He may have been "faster than a speeding bullet”, but it just wasn't the same when you were a head taller than Superman.

I kept trying to devise superhero ways that I would protect myself in the likely event that irrational and uncontrollable rage should happen to overcome them. I would punch out the window and attack them with the pointiest shard of glass. Yeah, that would work.

I imagined them working on a 60s chain gang with axes and miners' picks. You could develop serious arm strength doing that every day for five to 10 years! God knows how long they had been preparing for this very day - to regain their freedom and resume their reign of axe-picking terror.

I was jerked back from my day-mare by mom’s startled exclamation. She had carefully gotten a stain on her favourite shirt and was searching frantically for a napkin. Unfortunately for her, dad and I weren’t carrying any. Just when I started thinking that mom’s irritation would be enough to completely ruin the drive I heard a low, “Excuse me,” from behind.

I gently turned around to face a member of the chain gang. He began to rise and I could feel his shadow cover more of my face, the taller he stood. He was reaching for something that was out of my plain of vision.

This was it. And there were so many things I would never get to do. Goodbye cruel world.

As his lips slowly parted, I anxiously awaited the searing venom of the last words I would ever hear.
“Napkin, mam?” he offered
“Why, thank you” she replied.

"C is for cookie ... that's good enough for me!"

Yes, it's true. These things do exist. You can even call 1-800-HEY-UGLY for more information – it says so on the back of the tag. I checked.

My older brother scanned my expressionless face for a glimpse of excitement or even reassurance, as he thrust a stuffed creature of some sort into my hands.

"It's an Ugly Doll!" he exclaimed.

At this point I was pretty sure we couldn’t be related because I'm not one to cuddle with or pimp out my bedroom in the theme of stuffed animals, let alone ugly ones.

My brother went on to explain that my particular monster, Wage, was “the loveable one, obsessed with food; namely cookies.”

When the question of ‘why’ inevitably came up, he said that Wage was unique, funny-looking and reminded him of our funny childhood memories.

Was an Ugly Doll some sort of reflection on me? I guess I could live with that, bar the “funny-looking” side note.

My brother's connection here comes from the very minor detail that I had a slight obsession with sugar as a child. So minor in fact, that I was nicknamed 'Cookie Monster'. So what if I had a healthy appetite for the sweet and decadent? Besides not having blue fur or googly eyes, it was a pretty accurate description.

I was not made this way. I am a product of the system. An experiment gone horribly wrong. As an infant my mom tried to "raise me right" and refrained from putting any sugar in my food - rookie mistake! When pre-school rolled around, her plan completely backfired. Preschool was great! There was always a hearty abundance of the sweet stuff, whether it was your birthday, a holiday or you just learned to count to 10!

Life wasn’t always rainbows and butterflies though. I had to learn some hard lessons thanks to my appreciation for the finer things. When I was four, I face-planted into my birthday cake. The one I was supposed to share with the other kids. This taught me that greed can quickly and literally land you in messy situations and that sharing is usually a better option.

The Christmas I was five, we were making homemade cookies (of course) and I distinctly remember my mom telling me to, “Go ahead!” and have that big piece of cookie dough. For an hour I had the worst stomach ache of life, but I'll never forget how important it is to take the time to listen carefully to others.

I know that if I can achieve anything if I work hard and put all of my energy towards a goal. Similar to the night that mom vetoed my explicit wishes to have cake for dessert. I presented a solid case with tears, whining and more tears until my parents surrendered for no other reason simply than to shut me up. Mission accomplished, threat neutralized, win-win situation.

To this day I still have Wage. He's my only ‘stuffed animal’ and I don't cuddle or fall asleep with him at my side. Yet he’s transitioned with me from the teenage years to some version of independent adulthood. So why do I still have him? Because despite everything, that Ugly Doll is a true symbol of memories and good times with my family. He manages to pull together a collection of silly childhood adventures, lessons, inside jokes and reminders of the last time we were all together and the next phone call.