to judge a book by its cover

JUNE 2012- CHICAGO, IL

Friday night and I am heading home from my third date with Nick. We are waiting for the train after an evening in the suburbs. I am having a great night and feel like we are really starting to develop a connection. Although I’ve only known him a short time, I admire Nick’s outlook on the world. Optimistic, ambitious, and compassionate, he challenges me to think about a situation from every perspective.

While we are waiting, I do a quick survey on the crowd. I notice an unusually dressed man sitting on a bench. He appears to be in his sixties, but his attire is more typically suited for a mid-20s rocker. His long white pony tail is tucked under a black leather hat. His hands are covered with the kind of skull-and-cross bone rings you find in a gumball machine. He wears a black vest with khaki shorts. His swollen feet pour out of his hiking sandals. I give him the once over. What a strange outfit. I think to myself. I glance over at Nick for back-up. Surely he notices too.

We board the train, and the unusually dressed man sits across from us. Nick takes me by the hand and points in his direction. The man’s head bobs up and down as he struggles to stay awake. He must have had some night. I think, satisfied I am not alone in my observation.

At the next stop, the unusual man gets off the train. He begins to pace the platform as we pull away. The man slowly drifts out of sight and Nick leans into my ear.

“Poor guy,” he whispers. “I wish I had given him some money”.

“What?” I say, judgment oozing from my mouth.  “Why would you do that? He looks like he’s been out all night.”

“Trish, he probably has.” Nick calmly replies. “He appears to be homeless, and my guess is that he has diabetes. Did you see his swollen feet?”

I am stunned at how quickly I have expected the worst in a stranger. How could I be so harsh? The clothes on his body could have been all he owned; his sandals, the only thing his tired, swollen feet could fit into. He could be out at 2 am because he has nowhere to go, and sleeping on the street is too dangerous. So what he has a crazy outfit? My quick-glance judgment blinded me to his potential need. I am left ashamed at my lack of compassion.

“I feel terrible,” I admit to Nick. “I didn’t even think of that.” I sit quietly in my seat as we continue home. My mind races across the many cries for help I could have missed. I make a silent promise to default to compassion, and remember a time I could have easily been dismissed.

OCTOBER 2011- LONDON, ENGLAND

The team on our last night in London

The whirlwind of my business trip in London had come to an end. After 5 days with no sleep, countless presentations, and a six-hour time change, I had reached my breaking point. Naturally, when my wake-up call comes at 6:30, I sleep through it. Fifteen minutes later, another call. Sometime around 7:30, I awake to a banging on my door. It is hotel security. They have come to check on me since I have ignored their many attempts. I assure them that I am alright, but my sleep-deprived sub-conscious prevents me from knowing that I am just 30 minutes away from missing my ride to the airport. I return to my bed.

I awake again at 8 to a ringing phone. These people will not let up. I think, half asleep. This time, it is my co-worker calling from the lobby. “Where are you?” I hear from the phone. This is when it hits me. I am going to miss my flight. “Give me 10 minutes.” I answer back and immediately drop the phone. I hear a faint “Wait, Trisha…” coming from the receiver, but I have no time to chat. I begin frantically tossing my belongings into my suitcase. Still in my clothes from the night before, there is not enough time for a shower. I manage to change and wash my face before rushing out the door.

I arrive in the empty lobby, frantic.

“Have you seen my friends?” I shout to the front desk.

“Do you mean those blokes?” I hear from across the room. I glance out the front door and see a cab pulling away.

“Oh no!” I cry as I sprint out of the hotel. “They have my passport!”

I run down the street yelling after the cab. The car comes to a stop as I open the door.

“We are so sorry; we waited as long as we could. Thank goodness you are awake!” My boss says as she hands me my passport. “You’ll probably need this. Brad is waiting for you in the lobby. He’ll take you to the train station. See you at the gate!” They drive away.

Pathetic and sweaty, I wander back to the hotel. I check out as my coworker, Brad, calls a cab. We arrive at the train station and he sends me on my way.

“Have a safe flight.” He says. “And do you have sunglasses in your bag?”

Confused and very tired, I ignore his last question. I walk to the platform and find that the benches are all occupied. I drop my bags on the ground, and take a defeated rest on my suitcase.

Paddington Station

“Is there anything I can do to help you miss?” I hear from a concerned but calm British accent behind me. Wishing for just one moment of peace, I turn from my hunched over position and am face to face with the shocked gaze of a train attendant.

“Oh, thank you,” I reply, “I’ll be okay, just waiting on my train to the airport.”

“You mean that train, miss?” He points behind me just as its doors are closing. “Not to worry” he says as he sprints toward the moving locomotive.

The attendant reaches the train just as it begins to depart. Panic strikes as I leap from my suitcase and run toward the doors.

“Oy! Oy!” he shouts. “Stop the train!” The doors open, and he extends his arms for my bags. He promptly crams my luggage into the sardine can of a storage area, and walks me to passenger seating.

“Could anyone spare a seat for the lady?” he says as he reaches for my arm. Yeah, right. I think to myself. There is no way anyone on a crowded train is willing to stand for 45 minutes so the girl who held it up can rest her feet. I scan the passengers and notice the same concerned stare.

“Gladly,” says a voice from the back. I am in awe as I move toward his seat. “Thank you so much,” I reply. The attendant looks me in the eye, gives a kind touch and says “Have a safe journey miss.” We depart the station and I take a sigh of relief. I reach into my bag and search for my makeup, hoping to mask my fatigue. It is only now I begin to understand the many concerned stares. Covered in sheet marks and mascara, my face looks like a sad clown. While I had managed to splash a few drops of water in my rush out the door, I had not considered the fact that my eye makeup was not water proof. With all of the running (and London’s extreme humidity) my scraggly ponytail would suggest that I had endured a tornado. I look down to realize that my shirt is on backwards and inside-out. I spend the remainder of the ride freshening up as best as I can, grateful that so many people had come to my help.

While the many dilemmas I find myself in may not be life or death, a helping hand always makes a difference. If it weren’t for the security guard, taxi-driver, Brad, or the train attendant, I would have missed my flight. I could have easily been written off as a stranger in a crowded train station, but the compassion of others came to my rescue. Months later, as I miss an opportunity to lend the same helping hand, I can only take it as a lesson learned. And vow to be that compassionate stranger at the next chance I get.