I’ll Always Remember This Unexpected Gift From a Stranger

Not every gift comes wrapped with a bow

The best part of staying in Historic Savannah was the greenspace. Every block has its own square, named after figures who loom large in the city’s colorful and brutal history. Often there is a statue. Generous benches wait in every corner. Best of all, those benches are shaded by heaven’s trees.

I’m a lover of trees as it is, but these are extra swoony. Like no other oak tree I’ve witnessed, their branches curled up like kittens with curtains of oak moss dappling the afternoon sun.

The worst part of staying in Historic Savannah is that it's not set up as a community living space, meaning it’s tough to find groceries anywhere nearby. My grocery trips necessitated the use of an Uber.

There’s something about being in suburbia in an unfamiliar place with a questionable transit system. My brain knows I will find my way home, but laden with heavy bags of perishables, my pulse races until I see that someone is coming to get me.

Today that someone pulls up and asks “Ellen?” in a questioning voice. I smile, nod, and head over, putting my groceries in her trunk.

Paulette, my driver, kindly points out that I’ve indicated my current location as my destination. I’m still new enough to Uber that when I get flustered, I make mistakes.

She asks for my phone and fixes my error, and we are off.

As we head home, I ask her questions about the city, which soon morph into hearing about her life. She’s driving to make some money while she finds a job. She’s really hoping to get the receptionist job she’s interviewing for the next day at a healthcare clinic.

She says it’s taking a while to find a job because she’s being picky. “I’m not taking anything under, like, $20 an hour,” she informs me. “Sure,” I reply.

I wonder if this includes paid sick days and health insurance. It’s a livable wage but not one that allows for a lot of unplanned expenses.

“I almost didn’t come get you, because I’m so hungry,” Paulette confesses. “I’m starving actually. I barely ate breakfast. But I have to pay a bill tomorrow, so I thought ‘Okay, one more ride.’”

It’s 2:30 pm at this point.

I remember the feeling of watching the minutes tick away as Uber searched for someone willing to head out and pick me up. That helpless feeling of not being able to get back otherwise.

“Do you have a spoon in the car?” I ask. “I can give you a yogurt to snack on.”

“I don’t have a spoon, but I’ll still take a yogurt,” she replies honestly. “What flavor is it?”

“You can have vanilla or lemon.”

I’m hoping she doesn’t choose lemon, my favorite. As it happens, I bought just enough yogurt for each morning left in my trip. Giving one to Paulette means I’ll have to root up breakfast one morning in an area that doesn’t really do breakfast.

This isn’t an actual hardship, of course, merely an inconvenience.

I think about something I read recently.

Trauma teaches you to close your heart and armor up. Healing teaches you to open your heart and boundary up.

I wonder if, a few years back, sad, hurt, and confused, I would’ve made the spontaneous decision to offer even something this simple.

“Lemon? That sounds interesting. I’ll try that.” I smile ever so slightly as I nod assent. The only choice, really.

She pulls up and I grab my groceries, bending the attached yogurt containers to free one for her.

She takes it with an“Oh!” of slight surprise. The design, the generous container, it’s ‘treat yourself’ yogurt I bought on a whim. I like trying things I can only get in the States when I’m there.

“Thank you for making one last ride, Paulette. Good luck, tomorrow. You’ll do great.”

“Thanks!” she says, driving off.

I save the remaining lemon yogurt for the last few days of my trip. It lives up to the packaging, just the right proportion of sweet, tart, and fresh.

The last morning, as I eat it, I think of Paulette and smile. I thank her, for her kindness, for the gift of agency, for perspective.

I raise my spoon in a toast, hoping she aced that interview.

This post is in response to Ali Hall’s Gifts from a Stranger prompt for her publication, Spread the Ripple. Thank you, Ali, for giving this platform a space to talk about a random act of kindness.

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