I recently had to go to the post office, a trip one should avoid at all costs in December. When I arrived the line went out of the postal area and circled the lobby, with a lot of masked people standing silently on their little green circles six feet apart. I dutifully placed myself at the end of the line on one of the little circles as the line inched slowly forward. More people poured in behind me.
I had been in line for about half an hour, and could just begin to see the dedicated postal clerks in the distance, when I heard something from the far back of the line. It was the cry of baby, but not just any baby. It was the piercing cry which belongs only to a newborn. This is a familiar sound to any mother, no matter how long ago she first heard it. It is a cry that lasts for about three weeks, and is the only defense that the tiny scrap of humanity has to announce its presence and its needs. To those familiar with that cry it evokes joy and wonder, coupled with sleepless nights and feelings of tremendous responsibility.
I peeked around at the back of the line, and could just see a young mother trying to comfort the tiny blanket-full as she kicked packages along the floor while pushing a stroller. I remembered what that stage of life was like, and was overwhelmed with a desire to help. After a few minutes of consideration I turned to the gentleman behind me who was about my age. I asked him if he would he be willing to let this young mother cut in front of us to help her out. He looked at me as if I had three heads, and noted that he had been waiting in line for a long time, therefore, that woman could wait her turn as he had. The man on the green circle behind him made it clear he agreed, and I turned around a little taken aback.
At first I was truly irritated at this lack of compassion, but then I began to think. That cry, so familiar to me, meant nothing to them. They probably had never walked the floor with an inconsolable baby, or gotten up numerous times in the middle of the night to feed one. This was my experience, not theirs. If I wanted to help, the burden of helping should fall on my shoulders. I could not expect them to understand a situation that was beyond their comprehension.
And the solution was simple, quiet and peaceful. I simply traded spaces with that mother. I ended up waiting extra time in line, and the two gentlemen behind me did not have their waiting time lengthened in any way. I could well afford the extra time, and the look of relief on that young woman’s face was worth it. I received an eye roll from one of the men as I moved to the back of line, but it did not matter at that point. I had realized that while the sacrifice was mine, so was the joy of being able to lend a very small helping hand to someone in need. I happily took the joy.