Ordinary Decency

Monday morning did not go as planned. My truck wouldn’t turn over. Yes, it’s been cold, but it’s been colder. Yes, it has had some intermittent issues starting, but nothing to write home about, and it always turned over. But Monday morning–for whatever reason–all it had to offer me was a slow chug. The lights would turn on, but there was just no”there” there. I was pretty sure it wasn’t the battery—or at least it didn’t seem to be—and while I had at least some suspicion that made the starter was going out on the old girl, I had no way of knowing that was true (it sure didn’t stop me from asking Google anyway). 

In the grand scheme of things, this was a minor inconvenience at best. We have another vehicle, my spouse didn’t need that other vehicle for work today, and if all else fails I have a bicycle and a relatively short commute to work. But on Monday morning, it didn’t feel that minor. In fact, it felt like one more thing piling onto an already heavy stretch of days. 

I called the towing company, I also called our mechanic, and then I set out to get the tow company paid and let the mechanic know who would be bringing the truck by. But at each stop, I found myself a little caught off guard.

What caught me off guard was that the folks at the towing company were patient. The mechanic listened. No eye-rolling. No rushing me out the door. Just competence, kindness, and a willingness to help without making me feel foolish or burdensome. Ordinary decency, offered freely.

And I was honestly not ready for it.

After the events of the past several weeks—especially what has unfolded in Minnesota—I wasn’t prepared for that kind of care. Not because I think cruelty is the only thing left in the world, but because the volume of harm has been so loud, so relentless, that quiet goodness can feel almost disorienting when it is encountered up close.

I don’t want to turn this into a feel-good story. We do not need forced silver linings right now, or reminders that “there are still good people in the world” as a way of softening our outrage or muting our grief. That kind of optimism asks us to move on too quickly and tidy up pain that is still very much with us. But neither do I want to ignore goodness when it shows up.

Theologian Norman Wirzba writes that “care is not something we add onto life; it is what makes life possible.” Something about that feels right to me today. Care and empathy don’t fix the world. They don’t undo violence or restore what’s been lost. But they do somehow manage to keep us from becoming numb. They keep us from surrendering to the lie that harshness is the only reasonable response to a harsh world. And that’s not nothing.

What I encountered this morning wasn’t some big huge act. It was quiet attentiveness. Presence. A refusal to treat another person as a problem to be managed. And in a moment when so much feels brittle and dangerous, that matters more than we might want to admit. Not because it redeems everything. Not because it balances the scales of justice. But because it reminds us what kind of people we’re still called to be.

I don't know what the repair bill will end up being. I don't know if it's the starter or something worse. What I do know is that on a morning when I didn't have much margin left, two strangers made room for me anyway. That's not the whole story of this moment we're living through. But it's part of it
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And maybe that's enough to remember: that even now—especially now—we get to choose what we add to the world. We get to decide whether we will meet each other with impatience or with presence. Whether we will treat one another as interruptions or as human beings worthy of care.

The truck will get fixed or it won't. The hard days will keep coming. But so will the opportunities to show up for one another in ways that matter—not because they solve everything, but because they refuse to let everything be reduced to harm. That's the work. Not to pretend the world is fine, or to just “be positive,” or to “look on the bright side,” but to insist that we can still be people who practice tenderness in it…even on a Monday…even when the truck won't start.

On the journey with you (but maybe on foot 😉),
Pr. Melissa

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