The quiet power of kindness
IS THAT for me?” the lady asked as I held the door open for her. “Absolutely,” I replied. Then she tilted her head and said, “Were you an Eagle Scout?”
“As a matter of fact, I was,” I told her. “But I held the door open because I had a mother who would’ve boxed my ears if I hadn’t.” She smiled—one of those smiles that belongs to a generation who understood what “box my ears” meant.
I would’ve held the door for anyone following me into that building, regardless of age or gender. What surprised me was how surprised she seemed. Lately, I’ve noticed that simple gestures—holding a door, offering a hand, saying “after you”—are often met with an air of astonishment. Maybe it’s an age thing. These days, people often hold doors for me, and I appreciate it every time. It’s not about chivalry. It’s about empathy, about seeing and respecting the humanity in each other.
The encounter followed a conversation I had with an old friend. He’d been sitting in a coffee shop near a group of teenagers. They were all staring at their phones, thumbs flying, and he suspected they were texting each other—even though they were at the same table. I wanted to laugh, but I also understood. In their rush to document, post, and share, had the virtual world grown so loud that they’d forgotten how to simply be together? Had they lost touch with kindness, the art of noticing someone else? This isn’t a knock against young people. I think technology has foisted information overload on them, creating emotional fatigue. The solution isn’t about abandoning technology, but being more intentional about face-to-face connections and practicing kindness despite digital distractions.
My friend and I talked about compassion—how kindness is a skill, a habit, something that needs to be taught and practiced. But can you teach it in a secular school system? I’ve often wondered whether, when God was thrown out of the schools, kindness and compassion were thrown out, too.
Sometimes I watch people walking through Carmel with their eyes glued to their screens, oblivious to the town’s quiet beauty. I see drivers honk at tourists who are clearly lost—forgetting that we were all visitors here once. As a relative newcomer (only 25 years), I’ve discovered Carmel is built on kindness, though we sometimes lose sight of it in council meetings about parking, tree trimming, and house numbers. The charm of this place isn’t just its cottages and coastline—it’s the way people treat each other.
As a boy, I remember my mother sending me to deliver a pot of food to a neighbor. “Just hand it to her,” she said. “Don’t say anything.” I must’ve looked confused because she added, “It’s not charity. It’s just being human.”
Kindness doesn’t require a committee, a budget, or a press release. It only requires paying attention. It’s noticing when someone needs help and offering it. It’s remembering that the driver stuck in traffic, or the person at the grocery store fumbling for change, is fighting battles you know nothing about.
Kindness is contagious, but so is its absence. We get to decide which one we want to spread. In a world that often feels divided, angry, and hurried, kindness is a radical act. It’s a way of saying: despite everything, I still believe in us. It’s seeing the person behind the problem, the human being behind the headline. However, a caveat is needed here. Kindness without boundaries is self-betrayal. People might take advantage of you. You can end up neglecting your own needs and feeling resentful.
And to think, all of this came from a simple moment: holding open a door, and a gentle lady asking, “Is that for me?” A door held open becomes a story waiting to happen.
Deepak Chopra once said: “When you live your life with an appreciation of coincidences and their meanings, you connect with the underlying field of infinite possibilities.”
As I write this, the fog is rolling in over my deck—a sight that has comforted Carmel residents for generations. It blankets us all, a reminder that we’re in this together, navigating through the mist as best we can. Sometimes we need someone to help us find our way. Maybe that’s what kindness really is: being someone’s lighthouse when they can’t see the shore, trusting that a world of infinite possibilities lies beyond.
If you want to bring your kindness level up to “full” on the dipstick of compassion, start with the language of kindness, small words that open big doors. Commit them to memory: I’m OK with that. What can I do for you? Are you comfortable? No, you go first. I’ll take care of it. I hear you. Sit down, I’ll get it for you. Everything’s going to be OK. I’m sorry. Please. Thank you.
Contact Jerry at jerrygervase@yahoo.com
