The Size of Kindness

'The smallest acts of kindness.'

I started to tell someone today that even the smallest act of kindness brings tears to my eyes lately. But then I stopped and asked myself, "Are there any 'small' acts of kindness?"

Really. Isn't that a little bit like saying something was a 'little bit wonderful?' ‘Wonderful’ doesn't seem quantifiable, does it?

I feel the same way about kindness. The sweet and thoughtful gesture of someone who cares about you...the friend who not only thinks about showing you a kindness, but then follows through...

Invitation to lunch.

The colorful card left on my chair at work.

Wearing a kilt for me.

The leisurely phone call for no specific reason.

Late night Skype.

A hand-picked wildflower left for me.

A "Hey, how are you?" Scottish email.

All important and all appreciated and not a single one of them could be called small.

I have someone who texts me almost every morning to help me get my day started on the most positive note. Texts. Do you know how many times I've 'lovingly' mocked and teased those who text as a regular form of communication? But now it's one of my precious lifelines.

Kindness is, by definition, abundance.

Tae-draucht

Look out my window at work today....and what do I see?

Real man in real kilt, looking back at me.

Wide Open

The most difficult thing that I've ever experienced in this life is watching helplessly as one of my children suffer and struggle.

It is really like no other difficulty I've ever known.

Nothing makes me feel smaller and more helpless.

I become so acutely and painfully aware of my short-comings and my infuriating lack of super powers. And how I never had any business doing this parenting thing. How utterly unworthy and incapable I am.

I have to remind myself to breathe. Deliberately. Consciously.
"Okay, it's been a while since you've exhaled. How 'bout it?"

And I may be losing my perspective but I think the older they grow, my children, the more devastating this becomes. I'm not positive it is possible to accurately convey the grip upon my heart when one of my grown children cries out to me. The sound of their terror. Their grief. Whether on the phone or in my arms, my child thinking there is some way for me to magically fix what has brought them to their knees. I'm the mom, I should be able to fix it, right?

You know that dream when you are in some form of grave danger and you need to cry out. Want frantically to scream at the top of your lungs. You gulp a desperate breath and open your mouth but not a sound comes out?