The Smallest of Acts

I was in the self checkout at Kroger, scanning milk and bread, chips and yogurt, and a gallon jar of Mt. Olive whole giant dill pickles that I found on sale for about $5. Like me, everyone else within a five-mile radius of this store was stocking up in preparation for today’s snow. Lines of heavy grocery carts spilled out at each register into the aisles. Shoppers with single items, quickly darted about, weaving between the closely packed throng of bodies, queued up to pay and get home.

After a long day at the office, I had to force myself to make this trip to the grocery store. I do not like shopping under the best of circumstances and once lived on a carton of eggs for a whole week to avoid the experience. (This retail phobia doesn’t extend to book stores for some reason).

By the time I got to the checkout, I was feeling anxious. When you do your own scanning, anything can happen. The barcodes don’t work. The computer thing goes down. You have to wait for the store lady to come fix the mess, usually with some key hanging around her neck or a secret code and combination of key strokes that even a safecracker would have a hard time emulating.

Not only was I anxious, but the more items that came out of my basket, the closer the woman behind me kept inching up. Like if she allowed any space between us, she’d loose her spot. Anxious and irritated, I made a mental note to ignore this woman. She reminded me of the drivers in the morning who will break their necks—or yours—just to get a couple of cars ahead but when you get to a stop light, you’re both still in the same position you were in the first place.

It was then the gallon jar of Mt. Olive dill pickles slipped out of my hands and crashed open on the floor, creating a big green mess. I closed my eyes and shook my head, “No. This is the last thing I need.”

The woman behind me immediately offered sympathy. “It’s okay,” she said in a New York accent. “I’ll let them know there’s a cleanup. I’ll watch your things. Just go get another jar of pickles. It’s not a big deal, it happens to everyone.”

It was only then that I actually turned and looked at her face, olive-skinned, sweet smile with blindingly bright perfect teeth. I hesitated just a moment—I broke the jar after all, why should the store replace something as a result of my clumsiness? Then I just walked away, like I was on a death march, to find the shelf with the pickles, the gallon jars, the great sale. Finding them, I grabbed another jar then trudged back to my place in line, feeling sorry for myself.

My pickle mess was now covered in Ajax, a mound of blue powder and vinegar. “Thank you for watching for me. I feel terrible about this,” I told the woman, now a friendly presence, only moments ago the target of my grumpiness.

“Breaking a jar of pickles should be your biggest problem, right?” she smiled, that accent, the cadence of whatsamattayou.

“Right,” I said. And the truth is, while I do have bigger problems, her comment helped to put things in perspective. Whatever my problems, they are minor compared to the real problems that so many people face in the world—earthquakes, hunger, war, homelessness, not having a single friend. On the scale, good far outweighs bad in my life. And so oddly, that broken jar of pickles was actually a good reminder of how much I have to be thankful for—and to daily remember to thank God not only for the gift of life, but for putting strangers in my path that show the random goodness in the world through the smallest of acts.