Missed connections and the kindness of strangers.

The New Yorker blog recently published a humorous piece, "Missed Connection for A-Holes." It's both sardonic and silly, and I thought it was really funny. But then I thought of the hundreds of strangers who have been kind to me at just the right moments. So here are the missed connection ads that I'm sending out to the universe.

I was the woman at the Cheverly Aldi who forgot to bring a quarter so that I could get a shopping cart. You were the cab driver who gave me a quarter and then got in your vehicle. I wish I could let you know how much that quarter helped my day to go more smoothly.

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We were new parents in our mid-thirties, waiting in line with our baby at the Kaiser medical center. You were a man with white hair and a plaid shirt, probably in your eighties. In the first few weeks of our son's life, we had already been to a dozen doctor's appointments. My recovery was complicated. The baby wasn't gaining weight. We were exhausted and insecure. You stopped and wanted to see the baby. You said slowly and solemnly, "You are lucky. You are lucky." You changed my perspective on our situation and somehow imbued that moment with love and beauty. I wish that I could have gotten to know you. I'm sure that we would have been friends.

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It's 1992, and we're at the Wendy's in Germantown. You're a well-dressed middle-aged couple coming to eat a meal during the slow period between the lunch rush and dinner. I'm the 18-year-old employee behind the counter who helps you with your order. It's the fall after my high school graduation, and my classmates have already started college. I'm not in school, I don't have a social life, and I don't like my job. I feel out-of-place and left behind.When the two of you leave the restaurant, you drop a customer comment card in the box. We rarely get comments, so my manager immediately unlocks the box and reads it, then shows me the card. You haven't just circled the numbers indicating your level of satisfaction. You've written a glowing review of my performance, commending me for being helpful, polite, and smart. Thank you for noticing me and for spending a few extra minutes writing those words of encouragement. They made a big difference that day.

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I bought too many books at the library book sale, and you offered to walk me to my car so that you could help me carry everything. My car was parked at the far end of the parking lot. Thanks.

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It was January 1996, somewhere along the Missouri stretch of Interstate 70. We were three college kids driving a 1979 Mazda hatchback across the country. It was the middle of the night, and all of a sudden the road was icy. We spun off the highway into a snowbank in the median. We didn't have cell phones, and we were stuck there until you came along with your truck and your chain and pulled us out. We didn't have time to have a conversation with you. And it was dark, so I don't really know what you look like, except that you looked kind of amazing, kind of like a hero.

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I'm in the supermarket and my two-year-old has a meltdown. Before I can stop him, he grabs a jar of pasta sauce and throws it on the floor. Shards of glass and red sauce are everywhere. You're the employee who has to clean it up, and I'm really sorry about that. You soothe my embarrassment and cheer up my little boy, even when you have every right to be annoyed with us.

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This was about ten years ago, and I had just broken up with my boyfriend. I wandered into a strip mall, feeling bereft and hopeless. My glasses needed repairing, and I went into your store. You insisted on fixing them for free, even though I told you that I hadn't bought the glasses from you. Maybe you were hoping to gain a loyal customer. Maybe your motivation was profit, not kindness. But it felt like a little bit of grace, and I really needed that right then.

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I'm at the Beltsville Costco, waiting in a long line, antsy because I don't want to be late picking up my son. When I'm almost at the front of the line, I notice that the sign says, "This register is closed." I say something surly and am immediately ashamed of myself. I look around for another long line to join, and I notice you in the line next to me, gesturing for me to go in front of you. The man behind you smiles and nods. You two are making the offer together, and you both wear the expression of someone who is presenting a lovely surprise to a child. I protest. You insist. I say, "Thank you," trying to acknowledge with my body language that I know I don't deserve kindness like this after my grumpiness the moment before. You beam at me and say, "To God be the glory."

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I was having a particularly  horrible morning with the boys that had had practically unhinged me. You worked at my son's school and were helping with the morning drop-off. I was inexcusably rude to you, and I was mortified by my behavior later. I wanted to apologize, but it was easier to avoid you instead. After two or three weeks, I finally approached you to say, "I'm sorry." Your graciousness amazed me. You insisted that I had nothing to apologize for (not true) and tried to take part of the blame (which was not warranted — you were just being nice). Before I left, you told me that this was your last day working there before you started your new job. I went home and cried because I had almost missed my chance to make it right. I cried because it was a tiny, perfect moment of mercy.