If you look at my right knee, you’ll notice a scar about the size of a quarter.
The scar reminds me of the kindness of strangers.
I woke up the Monday morning after the Grand Prix in 2014, celebrating the end of the noise. I was also eager to go for a run. My favorite place to run is Beach Drive, and if you are at all familiar with the Grand Prix, you know that the run becomes nearly impossible for the entire month of March.
So that morning, I decided to go for a run. But when I got outside, I realized Beach Drive still wasn’t open to pedestrians. Frustrated, I decided to just run through downtown.
It sounds simple enough. But running on uneven sidewalks, through busy intersections and past parking garages can actually be a bit treacherous.
I paid for my decision. Near the end of the run, I was running along a sidewalk on Second Street S. I had just crossed Second Avenue S and was headed back to campus, when I suddenly went airborne.
I can’t tell you whether I tripped over a piece of trash or a bump in the sidewalk, but I can tell you that I hit the ground hard. The sidewalk wasn’t forgiving. It was a thick, wide sidewalk, perfect for ripping the skin of anyone who is unlucky enough to have a spill.
I guess you could call me the unlucky one. Or maybe I just wasn’t picking my feet up enough. Regardless, I consider it to be one of the worst spills of my life.
A businessman passed me as I was struggling to get up on the sidewalk.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
I think, through my tears, I mumbled something to the effect of “yeah,” and the man continued on his way. I took a deep breath, pulled myself up, and tried to ignore the pain in my knee and the blood gushing out of it (sorry to those of you with weak stomachs).
“Just get back to campus,” I told myself as I limped back toward Residence Hall One.
The moment seemed more traumatic than the actual reality. So as I passed the downtown Hilton, two employees working on landscape saw my tears—and my bloody knee.
“Can we help you?” they asked.
I nodded and asked for a bandage. The workers let me into the hotel, gave me a place to wash my wounds and gave me all the first-aid supplies they could find. They allowed me to stay in the air conditioning as long as I needed.
They could have ignored me walking by. They could’ve expressed pity without helping. And they would’ve been justified in doing so. They were on the job, and busy too.
But now, when I look at the scar, I’m grateful for the kindness of strangers. I regret that I never got the names of the people who helped me.
In reality, my injuries were minor, but the impact these people made on me cut deeper than my wound.
I want to do the same for others, no matter how minor their wounds may be.
