A Lonely Tribute

Charles B. Pirrone

27 Oct 1947 - 2 April 2017

My father died.

It's been 11 weeks and 4 days.  I know.  I'm still counting.  I don't think that's a good sign.  At least my shrink says it isn't.

I remember sitting by my dad's bedside in the ICU, hearing the beep of the EKG, absorbing every whoosh of the ventilator hoping he would take a breath on his own.  But he couldn't.  He was brain dead.  I couldn't look at his vacant face so I kept my eyes trained on the monitors.  I studied his BP, pulse, oxygen levels.  I studied the little jagged line that showed his heart beating.  Alive, but no longer living.  A nurse came in to check on him.  She asked if there was anything she could do for me.  I shook my head.  As I squeezed his flaccid hand in mine I knew there was nothing more anyone could do for either one of us.  Before she left I looked up at her and asked, "What do I do now?"  She patted my shoulder and said "Whatever you would normally do."

So I get up every day, I go to work. I review financial statements.  I analyze data.  I prepare reports.  Then I go home.  I feed the cat and make dinner for myself.  I watch mindless TV.  Every now and then I see friends or go to dinner with my sister.  I keep busy.

But then night falls.  I lie in what is quite possibly the most comfortable bed in the world, but I do not sleep.  Questions spin through my head.  Was my dad proud of me?  I'm sure he was in the way that dads are always proud of their kids, but did I earn it?  Did I deserve his adoration?  I wasn't the best daughter.  I got frustrated with him every time he would lose his wallet or his car keys or forget something important.  I was angry because I felt like I was raising a child.  In many ways I was.  I knew he was dying, but I didn't take the time to realize that that meant he was dying.  That each day was one less day I had with him.  I thought we had a couple of years.  I was wrong.

Now I lie in my super comfortable bed every night and I think about the time dad chaperoned my class trip to Dawes Arboretum.  I think about the stories he told me about WWI so that I could pass a history test.  I wonder if I would've ever passed Chemistry without his help?  I remember how excited he was when the school decided to place me in the gifted program.  He always believed in me.  So much so that he bought me my first Calculus book when I was 8.  I remember playing chess.  I remember bike rides and car trips.  I also remember him embarrassing me in front of my first crush.  I thought I'd never forgive him for that one.

That's one of the great ironies in life.  People let you down.  They do things you swear you'll never forgive them for.  But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, it's YOU who you can't forgive, not the other person.  I remember every time I tried to act like I didn't know him in front of my friends.  I remember every time I said 'I hate you' out of anger.  I remember every hurt and every scar I put on his heart.  I know he cried.  Not in front of me, but alone.  And I hate myself.  I lie in that super comfortable bed with an ache in my chest that is so very real.  It's amazing how physical grief can be.  It's as though your heart is literally ripping.

I lie alone and think about what his final days were like?  Did he know he was dying?  The day before he fell into the coma his dementia was the worst I'd ever seen it.  He wasn't cognizant.  But was he able to tell that he didn't have much time left?  Was he scared?  Was he in pain?  These thoughts circle my brain and make my heart ache even more.  My entire life I've been fixing things. I'm a doer. I'm a planner. But death isn't something you can plan and it's certainly not something you can fix.

Night is definitely the hardest.  That's when my entire soul aches from within.  It's so quiet, but the silence is deafening.  It's almost accusatory.  I couldn't fix him.

My religion tells me about the wonderful place that my dad went to where there is no multi-organ system failure and his heart beats in joy.  He's been reunited with his own father which is something he'd been waiting on for almost 17 years.  I'm glad that he's found eternity, but I'm human and selfish by nature.  I pray over and over asking God why he had to take my father away so quickly.  But the answer is always the same.  He was never mine to keep.  My father was a child of God; on loan to this world.  He completed his journey and returned to be with the one true Father.  But, as selfish as it sounds, it only makes my heart ache more.

I'll see my father again in due course.  I just have to be patient.  Dad always said one of his regrets was that he never taught my sister and I patience.  I told him it's hard to teach something you don't know.  Ouch.  That was mean.  I was a terrible daughter.  That's the kind of thing that makes my heart ache more.  I guess patience is something I'll have to figure out on my own.

So...for now, and probably for a while to come, I'm going to allow myself to lie in my super comfy bed, the sound of silence filling my ears, and I'll allow myself to cry.  To miss.  To regret.  And to hope.

And when morning comes, I'll start all over again.

War of Words

Okay kids.  Let's talk freedom of speech.  I think the 1st amendment is the most contested of the 27 amendments that have been ratified, so I'd like to weigh in with my opinion and a few indisputable facts.

I started meditating on Freedom of Speech and its meaning a few days ago when Richard Spencer was stripped of his credentials and ejected from the Conservative Political Action Conference, better known as CPAC.  For those of you who don't know, Richard Spencer is the president of the National Policy Institute, a white nationalist think tank, and a very outspoken white supremacist.  He stands by the policies of Adolph Hitler and has called for a "peaceful ethnic cleansing" in America.  When interviewed outside the conference after his ejection he made several comments that were taken as a call to action for white supremacists.  He also stated that white American citizens of European descent have become a minority in this country.  First of all, so what?  This country was created to be a melting pot, not a glass of milk.  Second, NO THEY AREN'T.  I'm so sick of uneducated people making that assertion.  Look at the facts.  Based on the most recent U.S. census non-Latino Caucasians make up 63.7% of this country.  The next most prominent ethnic group, Latinos, only constitutes 16.3% of the population.  That means there are 4 whites for every Latino citizen in this country.  And that ratio becomes even more unbalanced for African Americans (12.2%), Asians (4.7%), American Indians (0.7%), and those considering themselves multi-racial (1.9%).  So in what way are whites a minority?  I will fight to the death for Freedom of Speech, even hate speech, as long as those words are factual, legal, and based in reality.  Mr. Spencer fails on all fronts.  So let's take a look at what Freedom of Speech does/does not mean in this country.

Fact 1:  Although many don't like to admit it, Freedom of Speech was created to protect unpopular opinions.  That is the essence of why it exists.  Think about it.  No one needs to create a law to protect people from shouting "I love puppies!" or, "Rainbows are awesome!"  No.  The founding fathers created the law to protect outsider beliefs and those that could cause offense.  More importantly, Freedom of Speech was first contemplated as a means to allow citizens to voice their dissent against political officials and government.  The 1st amendment sort of grew out of a distaste for the oppressive rules of the British monarchy.

Fact 2: The amendments to the constitution protect citizens from legal retaliation in the criminal courts, not the civil courts with the noted exceptions of slander and libel.  You can say as many hateful things as you want without risk of being arrested or prosecuted.  In the case of slander (verbal defamation) and libel (written defamation) you can still say whatever you like as long as what you say is true.  But that doesn't mean that society can't punish you in its own way.  For example (and this may surprise some of you) I firmly stand behind the right of a bakery to say they will not make cakes for gay weddings.  A bakery is a privately owned business and, just like any other business, they have the right to refuse service to anyone they choose.  That being said, I defend the rights of any citizen who refuses to patronize those businesses.  I also defend their right to hold protests outside the business on public property.  That right is also guaranteed under the 1st amendment.  Another example would be Chick-Fil-A.  The restaurant chain's president, Dan Cathy, is a right-wing Christian conservative who has spoken out against LGBT rights.  He's allowed to do that.  It's a privately owned business and he's entitled to his bigoted opinions.  I however, am expressing my rights by refusing to eat there.

As I said, I will defend Free Speech to the death, but there are lines.  Statements made that cause physical harm to an individual, both perceived and implied, are off limits. There's a reason you aren't permitted to yell FIRE in a crowded theater (unless there actually IS a fire).  The resulting panic of individuals rushing to get out and save their own lives would cause great harm to everyone around them.  Telling someone to act out in a dangerous way is off the table as well.  You can't tell a rally of people to kill all the n****rs.  You can't threaten anyone's life in general.   You can't preach in an effort to evoke harm.  You can't call citizens to act in a violent or illegal manner.

There is also the line of protected classes.  You can't refuse service simply because someone is black or because they are Muslim.  You have to ensure that your business is handicapped accessible.  You can't refuse to hire women.  There are certain demographics like age, sex, religion, ancestry, etc that the government has decided warrant special protection under the law.  That's pretty awesome but it's only a start.  Right now there are only 10 protected classes.  That list needs to be much longer.  So far there are no civil protections for those of the LGBTQ community and that is a travesty.  I'm not gay myself, but I stand my all my fellow citizens.  No H8.

So, as long as what someone has to say is factual, legal, and based in reality, I support their right to say it.  Supporting free speech is fundamental in a democratic society.  But just as hate speech is legal, so is our right to speak out against it.  Just last month I told off an elderly man for making a horribly racist statement to a black pharmacy clerk.  As Michelle Obama said, "When they go low, we go high."  We have to stand by our moral convictions and let the world know we what we will and will not tolerate.  We might have to suffer under a delusional, nationalistic, autocrat in the White House but we can be still be vocal about our dissent.  That is our right and our duty as American citizens.

P.S. I do like puppies.

Spinach People Need Love, Too

(Writer's note for international readers: In the United States there is a cartoon character named Popeye the Sailor Man.  Whenever he's in danger he eats spinach which makes his muscles grow to help him beat up the bad guys or overcome obstacles.)

Back in my college days I found myself enrolled in a particularly tricky accounting class.  The professor exemplified arrogance and I knew from Day 1 that I'd have to work my ass off to prove my worth.  Midterms rolled around and I studied like I'd never studied before.  I took the exam and, for once,  I actually felt good about how I did.  Then came the fateful day when we received our scores.  The professor walked into class and pulled four boxes of cake mix from his bag.  He said our class had set a record with four people scoring 'A's on the midterm (that's how hard the class was- 70 kids, only 4 'A's) so, to celebrate, he brought those students cake (some assembly required).

He called off the names one at a time and presented each student with their "cake". 

The first name wasn't mine.  

Nor was the second.  

Or the third.  

I held my breath and crossed my fingers as I heard him announce the final name.  It was not mine.  

Fuck.  I worked so hard, but no cake for me.  

Then the professor announced that he had one final student that he didn't want to leave out.  One student came soooo close, scoring an 89%, but just needed a little more muscle to make it to the elite.  He walked up the steps and down the aisle until he was standing directly in front of me.  He placed a can of Popeye's brand spinach on the desk before me and said, "Good work, Ms. Pirrone.  Just needed a little more muscle.  You'll get 'em next time."

I still have that can of spinach.  I used to keep it on my desk in front of me as a reminder to always work a little harder, push a little farther, gain a little more muscle.  But that was a long time ago.

I'll always keep that can of spinach but it's no longer on my desk.  It's tucked away in a cabinet along with other happy reminders of the past.  It's a happy memory, and a fun story, but I will never again give that can any more regard than I do any other forget-me-not's.   I spent years telling myself that I wasn't quite good enough.  That I had to work harder or do more in order to be 'elite'.  That can served as the physical proof.  But I was wrong and I won't have a tin can tell me otherwise.

Now, there are plenty of things that I'm no good at.  For example, cars.  I know nothing about cars.  I know the hole where gasoline goes and the hole where oil goes, and I can change a tire, but that's about it.  My brother works in the auto industry so when I have questions, he's the one I go to.  He always gives me one of those "Bless her heart" looks when I ask what are, apparently, stupid questions.  Also, I don't get football.  At all.  Dad loves talking about football so I pretend to know a thing or two.  But I don't.  Not at all.  He might as well be speaking in Aramaic.  I know a tiny bit of Spanish, and even less French, but not enough to score an 89% on an exam.  And I'm okay with that.  None of those things make me 'less than'.  None exclude me from being 'elite'.

That 89% was probably one of the best things that could happen to me.  It forced me, over time, to become okay with my shortcomings and instead take pride in what I AM good at.  I know how to find the exact center of a circle using just a compass (the math type, not the boy scout type) and a ruler.  I know Roman numerals.  I've watched enough medical shows that I think I could place a chest tube or decompress a lung, should the need ever arise.  I know why they call a dollar bill a buck, where the phrase "to pay through the nose" comes from, and why the Statue of Liberty is green.  I'm pretty awesome.

Each of us has at least one special talent.  Some of us are scholars of literature.  Some can write computer code.  And some can name all of the Kardashians, which I'm sure is a skill to someone somewhere.  We all have talents, but for some reason we all choose to judge ourselves by what we can't do as opposed to what we can.  It's a universal condition.  Don't feel bad about it, but do acknowledge it.  You can't solve a problem until you know there is a problem.  Look inside yourself every day and remind yourself of all the things you excel at and forget about the rest.  The day I took that can of spinach off my desk was the day I decided to focus my energy on my talents.  Then and only then was I able to acknowledge that I am already elite.

One final note.  I ended up earning an 'A' as my final grade in that accounting class.  When I received my grade card I immediately emailed my professor.  "Dear Professor: I earned an 'A'. Where's my cake?"  His response, "Dear Ms. Pirrone: I inspired you to earn that 'A' so I kept the cake for myself."  If I saw him today I'd tell him I earned that 'A' because I'm already elite, no spinach required.

Return of Happy Dancing Girl

If you've been following my blog (and if not, why haven't you?  I'm insightful and hilarious) you know I've been hitting some rough patches in my life.  But I don't want you to think my world is totally doom and gloom.  I still find moments of happiness.  And, as much as I hate to say it, being physically active DOES help.  Exercise releases all kinds of happy brain chemicals.  Just don't tell my trainer I said that.  She'll never let me live it down.

I was the first to arrive in the office today.  I actually had the office to myself for over two hours which is a rare occurrence.  So I decided to have my own dance party.  Kinda like Risky Business but without stripping down to my underwear.  I threw in some strength exercises, some ab crunches, some wall push-ups, a plank, that kind of thing.  Once again, don't tell my trainer this, but I feel pretty good.

Which reminds me of a commercial I've seen running on TV every 5 minutes for a piece of exercise equipment.  The commercial starts with the hyped-up announcer proclaiming that the #1 reason people don't work out is a lack of time.  No, paid exercise equipment spokesman.  The real reason people don't work out is because exercise sucks.  It's hard, it's tiring, it hurts, it makes you sweat.  I'd rather spend an entire day hanging out with my least favorite family members than spend 30 minutes on a treadmill.  The #1 reason people don't exercise is because they already have enough torture in their lives.

But it really doesn't have to be that way.  I don't get a lot of personal time in my life, but I fit in little bursts here and there to make it less torturous.  I use my break time at work to walk around my building.  I can do it within 10 minutes and, if I dance while I'm doing it, I don't even notice the time fly by.  Yeah, people look at me funny, but I'm fat.  I'm already used to people looking at me funny.

Sometimes I close my office door as if I were on a confidential call so I can fit in a few minutes of ballet, or ab crunches, or arm strengthening stuff.  It's only a few minutes at a time, but those minutes add up.  And you don't need thousands of dollars of equipment to do a little strength training.  I've learned all kinds of things I can do with noting more than my body and a little motivation.  My trainer, Yolanda Rooney, has a ton of videos on YouTube that will walk you through strength training that you can do at home or (in my case) in your office.  Check out this video as an example:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEPM2Klo5KA

Now, I'll admit, I can't do ALL the exercises Yolanda has in her videos, but I can modify them enough to make it work for me.  Best part is, no equipment needed.

I have no false aspirations of ever becoming skinny and sexy.  Because of various health issues and medications I take I basically have no metabolism.  But just because I probably won't lose a significant amount of weight is not a reason to give up.  The reason I still chose to stay active is to strengthen my body, in particular my heart.  I'd rather not have die from a heart attack and, for me, that's worth a couple strolls around the building at work.  What would you be willing to do to give yourself a few extra years with your husband or kids or family?

Whatever you chose to do to be more active, make it YOUR plan.  If you pick something you enjoy it makes the habit easier to keep.  I can't imagine why anyone would ever take up hiking, but, should you happen to like nature, start going for walks in your local park.  For some people it's bicycling.  Spending an hour perched on a tiny seat that keeps pressing on my vagina doesn't scream party time to me, but some people love it.  I chose to dance.  And I love to swim.  There's a million different ways to fit a handful of minutes of activity into your day.  Take advantage of those minutes.  Be creative.  Make it a family event.  Just do it and keep doing it.  Don't worry how you look.  Just remember that those 10 minutes throughout your day are adding days to the end of your life.  And that's time very well spent.

My Father's Keeper

I am the world champion at being overwhelmed.  If being overwhelmed were an Olympic sport, I would win the gold, the silver, AND the bronze.

Being a grown up is hard.  For all of us.  Having to run errands, work a 9-5 job that you don't necessarily like, go to the bank, buy groceries, hit the gym, do laundry, pay the bills; It all adds up to stress and exhaustion.  But when you add another party to the mix...well...that's a whole new circle of hell.

Being a caregiver for another person elevates anxiety to immeasurable levels, especially when that other person is chronologically, though not mentally, a grown up themself.  Suddenly, on top of your regular grown-up responsibilities, you find yourself having to argue and negotiate with health insurance companies, you have to take time off work to transport your loved one to doctors' appointments and make sure to schedule all required follow up appointments (that never seem to work with your schedule), you pick up medications, you pay their bills-  that's the most fun part of being a caregiver - paying the bills.  You are forced to budget what money they have and, make no mistake, the bills ALWAYS extend beyond the income available.  You have to become a mathematical magician to try to determine what you can afford and what you can't.  Is your loved one going to live another 2 years?  5?  10?  You want them around and happy as long as possible, but, let's face it, the money WILL run out at some point.  It's up to you, and you alone, to determine what luxuries and treats you can afford now without bankrupting your loved one down the line.

Sometimes being a caregiver becomes so big that you don't believe there is anything bigger out there in the world.  It leads to isolation.  Sure, people can show sympathy, some may have empathy, but no one truly understands your specific struggle.  No one can relate.  No one else spends every minute of every day torn between wanting as much time as possible with a loved one while simultaneously wishing they would die just so you can be free.  And you get tired of  complaining about the same things over and over to your friends.  That is, when you can get a hold of any of your friends.  They're all moms and dads and have families of their own to manage.  You get tired of hearing yourself speak.  So you stop trying.  You stop reaching out.  You stop being a burden to others and you stop looking for joy.  You're convinced that the minute you step out for some joy, you'll drop a very important ball and the whole thing will fall apart.  And it will be All. Your. Fault.

I know...Trust me, I know.

My older sister is much better at these types of things than I am.  I'm big picture while she's one-day-at-a-time.  I'm the forest, she's the tree.  Since I'm dad's primary care giver I tend to lose my shit once a week or so.  Then it's Heather's job to talk me down off my limb.  Sometimes she's successful.  She gives very good advice from time-to-time.  Other times I'm so wrapped up in my own stress and anxiety I can't hear her.  I can't hear words of reason because anxiety has enveloped me.

Now, I'm no expert (obviously) on keeping your sanity together while caring for another.  But I can offer my one piece of wisdom that I hope will leave you with a glimmer of hope.  The most important thing you can do for yourself is decide when enough is enough.  You'll know you've hit that point when you start thinking of faking your own death and running away.  That's the point when you say no.  You say no to everything and everyone.  You keep saying no until you've built a space for your self to breathe.  Women in particular have trouble with this.  We're conditioned from a young age to be agreeable and conciliatory.  But remember, saying no to someone else is just a means for you to say yes to yourself.  Each time you say yes to yourself you create a little more desperately needed breathing room.

So keep saying no to others and yes to yourself.  Say it until you can start to see the light shining through the forest.  Take deep breaths.  Assign yourself one singular task to complete today.  I know how long your To-Do list is, I have one myself.  But commit yourself to one thing and one thing alone.  Once you accomplish that one thing, treat yourself like a hero and breathe.  Because you've earned it.

Paving the Way

In honor of the opening of Black History month, I'd like to pay tribute to four trailblazers who showed us the impact of civil disobedience and the importance of standing up for what is right.

On 1 Feb 1960 four African American college students (Joseph McNeil, Franklin McCain, Ezell Blair Jr, and David Richmond) walked into a Woolworth's store in Greensboro, NC, sat down at the "whites only" lunch counter, and ordered coffee.  They were, of course, denied service and asked to leave.  But the four men refused to leave.  They stayed in their seats waiting to be served until the store closed that night.  They returned the next morning and, once again, took up residence at the "whites only" counter and were, once again, refused service and asked to leave.  Once again they remained until the store closed that evening.  This practice continued each day for 5 months, 3 weeks, and 3 days until the store finally surrendered and agreed to desegregate.

The Greensboro Four were not the first to stage a sit-in during the Civil Rights Movement but they were, and are, historically significant because of the attention they garnered for their cause.  When they entered Woolworth's on Feb 1 they had only each other to rely on for strength and solidarity.  However, when they returned the next day they found more than 20 other students from local colleges and universities there to join them.  Each morning as the men arrived they were met by more and more people joining them in their cause.  Widespread media coverage of the sit-in led to similar protests and boycotts in cities throughout the south.  By the time President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act in 1964 more than 70,000 Americans had taken part in various protests.

By their courage and determination, the Greensboro Four became part of  a great American tradition of civil disobedience.  From the colonists who dumped British tea into Boston harbor, to Henry Thoreau refusing to pay federal taxes, to Susan B. Anthony illegally casting a vote in the 1872 Presidential election; the American people have proven the power and ability of ordinary people to accomplish extraordinary things.  It is that very spirit that ensures that we as a nation continue to make progress in the fight for justice and liberty for all.

Everyday Hero

I have an app on my phone called Timehop (I'm sure most of you are familiar) that shows me what I posted to social media on the current day in previous years.  Here is what I wrote on 24 January 2016:

"CNN is running a series called "The Person Who Changed My Life" wherein various CNN anchors share stories of their life changers. Hmmm... THE person? Like the ONE most significant relationship that forever changed who I am? That's a million dollar question. There are people who have taught me how to love, people who have taught me how to laugh, and people who have taught me to think and question. There are saints and sinners. There are people who have shown me that pain and cruelty exist and people who have taught me how to overcome pain and cruelty. I don't think I could name ONE person if I tried. But to all of you who make my list, thank you. Thank you for inspiring me and teaching me to believe. Thank you for proving that yesterday does NOT have to define tomorrow. Thank you for creating the amazing person writing these words right now."

Those words are as true today as they were a year ago.  I've encountered many game changers in my life, both positive and negative, but there are certain things I've come to realize; For one, I don't think we give enough credit to our bad relationships.  I think we tend to beat ourselves up for staying in them.  It's good that those relationships are over, but those bad relationships are every bit as important to who we are now as the good ones are.  Every boyfriend I've had has put me closer to knowing what I NEED in a partner as opposed to what I want.  Every ex-friend has shown me how not to treat the people I care about.  And that's important.  I've learned never to raise a hand to another and that sharp words cut deeper than any knife.  Every slight and every blow has built me into a stronger, wiser, more compassionate person. So to all you jerks who were terrible to me, I owe you my thanks.

Another thing I've come to learn in my old age is that we didn't get to this point in our lives by stumbling around blindly.  Each of us has had thousands of hands guiding us along the way.  Some of those hands pass us on to the next never to be seen again.  They may never know the full impact that they had on our lives.  For example, I've had dozens of teachers from preschool through college but I can only remember the names of a few.  Those are the ones that helped build me.  Like Debbie Stephenson.  She was my high school choir director and my vocal coach.  She was more than just a teacher to me.  She was a friend, a parent, and a mentor.  I remember her for holding my hand after my sister was in a bad car accident.  I remember her for- quite literally- smacking me in the back of the head when I started slacking off from my studies.  She used to tell all her students, "Make mistakes, but make them LOUD."  She never let us feel ashamed for hitting a sour note, as long as we did it confidently and learned what not to do next time.   I still remember Mrs. Stephenson every time I screw up.  I remember because I know it's okay and that I can, and will, do better.  I haven't seen her in nearly 20 years, but I still want to make her proud.  She will probably never know what an integral part of my scaffolding she became.

Then there are the everyday heroes we all encounter.  One particular story from my own life comes to mind.  It was about 13 years ago.  I was in college and working full time.  I had fallen asleep after a long night of studying and  failed to hear my alarm clock.  When I finally I woke up I went into panic mode trying to get dressed and grab everything I'd need for the day, beating myself up for how late I would be getting to work.  I HATE being late.  It was raining, so traffic was terrible.  I got halfway to work when my empty gas tank light came on.  I pulled into the first service station I encountered, all the while knowing this little detour was making me even more late.  That's when I realized that my wallet was sitting on the kitchen counter at home.  I didn't have any money to get gas and I didn't have enough gas to get home so I was stranded.  I was so tired I couldn't even cry.  I scrounged up about 58 cents from underneath the seats of my car and dashed into the station to pay the clerk.  I must have been a sight.  My hair was stringy from the rain, I was wearing 2 different shoes (didn't notice that until just that moment), and I was trying to buy 58 cents worth of gas.  The clerk pulled out his wallet and put a $10 bill in his drawer.  He told me to fill my gas tank and be careful getting to work.  I was still wet.  I was still terribly late.  But that one gesture made me feel peace.  I was so wrapped up in my problems I had forgotten how much good is out there in the world.  I went back a few days later to repay him, but he refused my money.  He said he was just passing on the blessings that God had given to him.  Mind blown.  I'll never know for sure, but I have a feeling that that guy didn't go home and tell all his buddies about how he saved some poor girl.  I doubt that he boasted or bragged about his incredible generosity.  However, I DO hope that he went to bed knowing that he made the world a little bit better that day.

That stranger was a hero for me.  He is as much a piece of me as every other relationship I've ever had.  And he'll never even know it.

We've all had hundreds of game changers in our own lives, good and bad, but what I want you to take away from this is that every encounter we have gives us a chance to be a game changer for someone else.  Of course we affect our friends and our family members daily.  But it's those chance encounters that really make the difference.  How we treat others impacts how they treat everyone else down the line.  It's all about random acts of kindness.  So pay for the car behind you at the drive through.  Stop to help the stranded motorist change their tire.  Pay off a stranger's lay-away account at Christmas.  It's not about gaining praise or acclaim.  It's about going to bed that night knowing that you made the world a little bit better today.  And that makes you a hero.