The tapestry of life

My Grandma Bubacz called it "The Tapestry."


It's the notion that people you may or may not know influence you in ways they would never have imagined.

For example, my favorite Grandma Bubacz story starts with my Grandpa Bubacz proposing to her by asking her how she'd like a house with a white picket fence. But with my grandma being my grandma, she didn't immediately answer him. Instead, she made him sweat for three days while she went on a weekend trip by herself to pray to God for guidance. She secretly asked God for a sign: that she would receive a red rose if she should accept my grandfather's proposal.

Days went by without the answer my grandmother was seeking, but before she left, she went to see a nun whom she'd made friends with during the weekend trip. When my grandmother told the nun she was leaving, the nun embraced her, turned around, and plucked a red rose from a bouquet behind her to give to my grandmother to remember her visit.

That nun most certainly didn't realize what an impact she made on my grandmother's life, but had she not made that simple gesture of friendship, maybe my grandmother wouldn't have married my grandfather. That would mean neither my mother nor I would never have been born.

This same principle exists every second of every day - just without anyone realizing it every time it happens.

On a small scale, someone at the checkout line at the supermarket who compliments me on my outfit might not know that later, I'll put a little extra confident bounce in my step.

On the flip side, someone who shoves me and shouts "MOVE!" while I'm walking up the stairs from the subway could vaporize my otherwise good mood and put me on the defensive for the rest of the walk home.

So I think it's a blessing when our eyes are open to this phenomenon.

The other day, I was serving coffee and cleaning as usual near the two tip jars that sit next to the cash registers when a 10-year-old boy ran up to me - bypassing the tip jars that are evenly split between all the employees - to press a $20 bill into my hand.

"My dad wants you to have this," he said. "For Christmas and to thank you."

"Are you sure?" I twice ask him. Then, because I was so bewildered at the time and I didn't think to go up to his dad and tell him myself, I said, "Tell your dad I said 'thank you.'" It was either that or I subconsciously thought that if the guy sent his kid up to me instead of coming up to me himself, he didn't want the recognition.

Either way, I made sure to pay attention to see that the kid scampered off next to a man who was on his way out the door. Even from behind, I realize it's a customer who I know well. He's a middle-aged man with gelled sandy-brown hair who always orders two bagels with four cream cheeses for his kids in the late mornings, and will smile his shy smile only when you look directly in his eyes and smile at him first.

After he left, I racked my brain as to why he would single out me to show his appreciation. I mean, I see the guy maybe once or twice a week; we've never had anything that could be misconstrued as a meaningful conversation, and one of the longest interactions we did have revolved around the time he and his kids were sitting in the lobby near a ceiling tile that collapsed along with a whoosh of water from the rain the night before, and he asked me for another bagel because some dirty rain water splashed on it.

Nevertheless, a few days later, I see him again - Bill, I later find out - and try to look into his eyes as he's ducking his head so I can tell him, "Thanks for the other day. It meant a lot." Then I left it at that because I felt that with him, it was all I needed to say.

What I was feeling, though, was surprise that I'm more than a robot serving coffee to these customers. I apparently affect them in ways maybe I don't realize (the tapestry at work!). Though I may never know exactly why Bill gave me the extra Christmas bonus - because I'll never flat-out ask him, of course - it's a gift in itself to know, simply, that I matter.