Walking My Talk

I try to walk every day, and most of my walks include portions of the wooded trails that surround my apartment complex. Today’s walk—the one I just returned from—included a trail that terminates at a street bordering an adjacent neighborhood.

Where the trail and street adjoin, there’s a covered bench backed by a bulletin board featuring neighborhood news and activities. Today, as I was coming off the trail, I noticed there was a man sitting on the bench. My route took me in the opposite direction from the bench, and I was startled when I heard the man call “Miss . . . Miss” as I was walking away from him.

Instead of turning around, I quickened my pace and continued walking.

I hadn’t gotten more than a few steps before my mind gremlins began jabbering. “Hah! The hotshot author of a book about offering kindness to strangers turns her back on someone reaching out to her. I bet she won’t be telling this story. What a loser!”

Trying to salvage something useful rather than condemning, I started thinking about doing a blog piece about forgiving ourselves when we fail to live up to our own expectations. It’s even something I talk about in the book.

But even as I had those thoughts, I knew I wasn’t going to get away that easily.

So I turned around and headed back toward the bench, knowing I had to acknowledge the man in some way, secretly hoping that he’d moved on and wouldn’t be there. Then I could credit myself with my good intention without having to follow through on doing something scary.

But he was still there. As I approached the entrance to the trail, I looked toward him, raised a hand, and called hello, pausing briefly to see if he would repeat his earlier attempt to get my attention. But he didn’t. He just raised his hand in acknowledgment of my greeting, and I reentered the trail.

A sigh of relief. I’d faced my fear and made an effort.

I made it maybe 20 steps before I turned around again.

This time, I approached him and said from behind my mask, “Is there something I can do for you?”

He too was masked, and there was no immediate response. “I heard you call as I passed you earlier,” I said.  “Do you need something?”

He told me he needed to get home and had no money or phone. He said his backpack had been lifted as he was waiting for the bus to Seattle, and added that if I could give him a couple of dollars it would help. There was a pause, and I asked what brought him to Bellingham. For the next few minutes he talked about losing his job and his wife and said he’d come to Bellingham “to say goodbye” to someone.  Then he told me he’d been living alone for the past seven months and remarked on how hard it is to communicate “with this,” pointing to his own mask.

I agreed. Then I took out the five dollar bill I keep tucked into my cell phone case and handed it to him, saying I hoped it would help him get home. He stood and accepted it with thanks and introduced himself as Brian. I said I was Nancy and that I regretted not being able to shake his hand—then added, “or give you a hug.” Then I suggested he consider himself virtually hugged.

As I left, he was heading toward the village and the bus depot, just a few minutes’ walk from the trail. I have no way of knowing how accurate this man’s story is or how he used the five dollars, nor is it my business. He provided me with an opportunity to literally “walk my talk,” and I provided him with the kindness of being acknowledged and heard, even if only for a few brief moments.

I’m hoping that when we parted he was smiling behind his mask, as I was.

What an incredible power we have, to walk through the world, making somebody’s day.

KRISTA TIPPETT