The other day I was walking through the hustle and bustle that is Chinatown. I had heavy bags and I was growing weary. It had been a long week and I was carting home a bunch of work for the weekend.
I was beginning to feel like people were bumping into me on purpose—as if their goal for the day was to annoy me. I was growing a bit smug in thinking how much more courteous and better human in general I was than those who seemed to be part of a grand conspiracy to ruin my day: take “my” seat on the subway, jostle me, block me at the turnstile, etc, etc. Around the time I was beginning to enjoy my wallow in the puddle of self-righteousness, I looked up and saw an unusual piece of graffiti. Scrawled across a storefront under construction was the word, “blessing.”
Blessing. It was written in black script across some worn plywood. The word made me stop in my tracks.
It was as if the voice of God – the one that can crack the cedars of Lebanon—had cut clear through my heart. Snapshots of my day flashed before me. All of those moments when I forfeited my opportunity to be a blessing came to mind: holding an elevator door, a smile, an extra dose of understanding, some money for the street performer.
It’s so easy to be a blessing to someone else—to extend a little grace in a city teeming with millions of people in need of a simple act of kindness. Yet, how often do I let these opportunities pass me by? I’m no better for it in the end. It’s the days when I do extend myself a little bit more that are always the best.
