Catching the Overflow

The quiet work of human kindness

Kindness has a way of finding me at the grocery store. 

Three years ago, I published a newsletter recounting moments from the month that I had considered–if not earth-shattering–worthy of immortalization. Below is an excerpt:

A couple weeks ago, I had a heart-wrenching patient evaluation (for those of you who don’t know, I’m an admissions nurse for a Spanish-speaking hospice). Though we didn’t admit the patient, I bore the weight of witnessing another human grapple with their humanity. After my shift, I dragged myself to Trader Joe’s and found myself standing before the uniform rows of egg cartons, my tired brain bewildered by all the choices. A crew member was in the process of unloading more cartons, and we struck up a conversation. I commented on the difficulty of so many options, reflected on the double-edged blessing and curse, and attempted a pun about my brain being fried (sadly, it wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be). He asked me what I did, and I, still in my scrubs, explained that I was a hospice admissions nurse. At that, Latrell paused and asked, “How do you care for yourself emotionally?” The question was posed with gentle, genuine sincerity. I was floored. Some casual conversation and a stranger’s single, intentional question left me feeling so seen. I marvel at the Lord’s kindness and hope I’ll get the opportunity to thank this kind man. Guess I’ll have to do another egg run soon!

Side note: My now-husband, then-acquaintance reached out to me via Facebook Messenger three months after I’d posted the above newsletter, informing me that he knew LaTrell and could introduce me! I continued conversing with that acquaintance, and here we are today: six months into a joy-steeped marriage. The obvious moral of this story is to have meaningful conversations with your local Trader Joe’s (or grocery store of choice) crew member and write about your interaction afterwards. You never know how it might benefit your love life.* 

Fast forward to this past Monday. I could feel a cold coming on, so I squeezed in a grocery trip to stock up before coming home to cook dinner. My eyes scanned the entryway as I swept into my local Grocery Outlet. Not a basket lay in view, and I was too stubborn to go track down a shopping cart outside. I’ll be fine. 

One container each of spinach and mushrooms, 
             a pint of tomatoes, 
     one bag each of lemons and avocados, 
                  two cans of organic chili, 
           a package of deli ham,
 a bottle of squeezable mayonnaise, 
       and one jar of ground cinnamon later;       

I was beginning to question my earlier life decision. 

I can still make it. With cans and containers hugged hopelessly to my body and bagged produce dangling between pinched fingers, I waddled towards checkout. Two people with full carts stood between me and the blessed black conveyor belt. I resigned myself to the end of the line, arching my back slightly to keep the cans of chili from rolling off the spinach container. Please, please, please don’t fall had replaced any previous, deluded I got this.  

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a lady fall into line behind me. Her bucket hat, slate blue with tendrils of white fuzz, sat in stark contrast to her cherry cable knit sweater. She too had no basket or cart. Once she had established her place in line, she stepped out of it to grab a stray shopping cart sitting not too far away. To me–perhaps because I had been too fixated on my sinking ship of groceries–it seemed that she had pulled the cart out of thin air. Before I could register what was happening, she had wheeled the cart towards me and looked me straight in the eye. Joy wrinkles lined her face, and her eyes were bright. “Here, this is for you.” Her r’s curled slightly, and her dark brown hair glinted under the fluorescent light. 

“Are you sure?” I protested feebly. 

“Yes,” she replied, still smiling at me. She, too–she informed me–had been in my situation before, and someone had helped her. 

I didn’t need a second bidding. My back still arched, I somehow managed to hoist my load into the shopping cart seat and grunted out a “thank you so much.” A backup cashier stooped mid-stride to pick up a fallen can of chili. 

As my items were rung up, I turned to thank her once more. Once more, her expansive smile met me. It has stayed with me until now. 

There is a theme emerging from these two kind souls at two different grocery stores: The Lord provides people to catch my overflow, whether figuratively or quite literally. At the first grocery store three years ago, I was bleeding vicarious trauma from witnessing another wrestle with their own mortality. At this grocery store, I was very close to playing the unwanted game, “10 Grocery Pickup” (maybe closer to 52 if you were to count each tomato, mushroom, and spinach leaf as an individual item). My heart has also been buckling under the weight of so many things in this cultural moment. When I find myself in this position, my reflex is often to erect invisible walls, keep my head down, and try to manage it all on my own. Thank God for crossing my path with people who have noticed my overflow and helped me hold it.

The Lord’s provision in this manner also stands as an open invitation: When grief shrieks and anxiety grates and injustice roars unchecked, share with others the kindness that you have received. Even now. Especially now. Those quiet acts of noticing and responding to someone’s overflow–even in a place as mundane as a grocery store–can breathe nourishment into another soul. 

You cannot put a price tag on that. 

---

Image shared with permission of the one in it.

---

*Since first drafting this newsletter, I have learned that LaTrell and his partner have been displaced due to the recent Eaton Fire. If you are looking for a way to be a conduit of grocery-store kindness, would you consider giving to his GoFundMe? How profound would that be to bring things full circle and bless the guy who met me with kindness in my overflow?

---