UNCONDITIONAL LOVE—MADE SIMPLE

Sunday morning, after mixing the pancake batter for my younger son and his "sleep overs", I found we were down to just a few drops of maple syrup. Although the last thing I wanted to do was return to the supermarket—I’d already been out for the Sunday paper—there was no getting around it. Pancakes without syrup—I don’t think so!

I was smart enough not to come up with a half-baked solution like using honey instead. So, leaving the batter on the island, I headed for Super Stop & Shop and the syrup aisle. I also grabbed a few other items—bananas and organic apples, ingredients for the healthy fruit shakes even my kids love, and vegetarian eggs.

I usually speak to the person in the check-out line. I try to be nice, and of course when I do, they usually respond in kind. This morning I met a young woman, identified by her badge as Lizzy, at the register and a young Asian girl about my son’s age—sixteen—bagging the groceries. Her tag read "Hai."

I avoided the temptation to joke about the pronunciation of her name, thinking half the people she met probably did. Instead I asked, "what nationality are you?" "Vietnamese," she smiled back.

"From what part?" I asked. "Saigon," she answered. "I was there, during the war." I smiled extra much, as I have every time I’ve spoken to a Vietnamese, as if I was proving I wasn’t going to harm them or some such idiotic thing.

"I was up near Quang Ngai," I told her. "Of course, that was before you were born."

Then Lizzy politely reminded me where I was at the moment. "Swipe your card, please?" "Okay, Lizzy," "I’m called ‘Liz'" she corrected me." "I have a short for my name too," I joked. "Toe", she smiled, surprising me; nobody has ever guessed it before.

I turned back to Hai. "I wrote a book about the war." I couldn’t resist telling her. "It’s called, 'Beneath Buddha’s Eyes'."

"What’s that again?" Liz asked as she wrote down the title. "I’ll have to go buy one."

On the way out to my car I’d decided I would give them each a book. Since the publisher has given me only twenty-five copies, each one is quite precious to me. I’ve given out only a few to family members and a couple of newspaper editors. Because I don’t carry copies in my car, I had to drive back home. I half expected that when I got there I’d probably change my mind and let them buy their own. But I didn’t.

I took two fresh copies off the shelf in my office, signed them on my desk—one for Liz and one for Mai—which, from that moment on, assured ownership of the books. When I got into the store I pretty much raced up to their aisle where I stopped check-out traffic for about a half a minute while I opened each book to determine which was for which.

The entire act of giving was no more complicated than that. I heard a "thank you" from Liz and maybe one from Hai as well, as I aimed for the automatic door. I didn’t really even have time to look at their faces. The way it happened was just the way I wanted it—simple and uncomplicated. In a way, my giving them the books was a selfish act because it made me feel so good.

I’m surprised that I’m even writing about this here. I think the reason I am is not to brag about what a good guy I am, because what I did was really no big deal, it is just to share how good the simple act made me feel. I suspect it probably did the same for Liz and Hai as well.

For me, this is what peace and love are all about.

Posted by Tony at April 7, 2003 08:19 AM