Richelle Hofer

“Your dad has had a heart attack.”  I was standing alone in my office after my last appointment of the day when I listened to the voicemail.  About 20 minutes later I got another call.  

It was my sister.  

She was crying.  

She didn’t have to say the words, I already knew.  

My dad was dead.  He was 60 years old.  

The next couple of days were a blur… a flurry of activity and waves of emotion.  My sisters and I made the six hour trip out to my dad’s house to be with his wife and our brother. 

We met with the funeral director; we picked out a casket and a funeral bulletin; we wrote an obituary; we tapped every energy reserve we had and we made all the hard decisions you’re required to make when someone you love dies. 

On the morning of the visitation I was exhausted.  And I was hungry.  

We were staying at a little Airbnb in the town where the funeral was to be held.  Although the home was well appointed, it wasn’t stocked with food and we hadn’t felt much like eating up to this point.  

After a quick google search of restaurants in the area, my sister and I headed off to Subway for a breakfast sandwich.  

It felt so strange to be doing something so normal… so trivial… on a day of such enormous significance.

It felt so strange to be doing something so normal… so trivial… on a day of such enormous significance.  

We sat in silence in the parking lot outside the restaurant for a moment before we headed inside. From the day dad died up to this point pretty much everyone I’d been encountering was aware of my loss.  They were careful with their words, and spoke to me with kindness.  This would essentially be the first time since dad died that I would be meeting someone who had no idea what was happening in my life.

I felt so vulnerable.  Shouldn’t I have some kind of sign to wear to warn people “Caution, she’s barely hanging on”?  

I took a deep breath as I opened the door to enter the restaurant.  It was going to take every ounce of strength I had left to order this breakfast sandwich without collapsing into a puddle.  What would I do if they were rude?  Would I have that mental breakdown I’d been fighting off?  Would I make a scene and run right out of the restaurant?

Shouldn’t I have some kind of sign to wear to warn people “Caution, she’s barely hanging on”?

“Please be nice to me” I silently pleaded in my head with whomever I was about to encounter.  

We walked inside, we were met with pleasant smiles.  “Hello, how are you ladies today?” We smiled politely and replied simply “Good! How are you?” 

It felt strange.  It was a lie.  We weren’t “good”, but the sandwich artist at Subway was just being polite and so we replied in turn.

We placed our order.  We ate our sandwiches.  It was all so normal and yet it felt so different.  Almost like I was an imposter… an alien in a world I once knew.  How could everything around me so unchanged while inside I felt so different?

As we left someone said “Have a good day!” “Have a good day, at your dad’s visitation” I thought.  “You too” we replied.  Then we left.  

I wondered to myself as we walked out “how many people do I encounter each day who are in this same position?” 

Wouldn’t it be easier, if we all just had a little sign we could wear when we’re barely hanging on?

If I knew that the waiter who showed up at my table looking slightly annoyed was just back on the job after burying his infant son.  If I knew that the car going 60 mph in the passing lane was driving home in a daze after being diagnosed with inoperable cancer.  

How many people do I encounter each day who are in this same position?

Would it change the way I treat people?

What would happen if we just started assuming that everyone we meet is barely hanging on?  Would that kind of kindness change the world?

Robin Williams said “EVERYONE you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.  Be kind.  Always.”  (emphasis is mine)

My dad did a lot of impressive things in his short life.  He planted a church, he helped to start an orphanage in Mexico and led kids camps in places like India and Uganda… but I was struck by something at his visitation that night.  

No one was talking about the big impressive things my dad did.  Instead people were sharing about something funny he’d done that made them laugh, or some small caring gesture he’d made at a pivotal time in their lives.  They were talking about how he’d driven out of his way to stop in and check on them during a hard time in their lives.  They were talking about small acts of kindness he’d extended to them when perhaps they wished they’d had that “barely hanging on” sign.  

Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.

Robin Williams

As I write this, my dad has been gone 3 1/2 years.  I have reflected on that morning at Subway often.  The Subway employees that helped us that day had no idea what I was going through and they had no idea how their very ordinary pleasantries have profoundly impacted me and my interactions with people.  

Oh sure, I mess up.  I get frustrated and I don’t always treat people like they’re wearing the sign.  But I am on a mission to positively impact someone everyday.  One life.  One small gesture.  Kindness wins.