Every morning on weekdays, as the sunrise flirts with the horizon, I’m outside. If you are looking out your window at insane o’clock and see someone in hot pink snow pants wearing headphones, a headlamp, wrapped in a tangled-up canine waist belt with sidekick canine, that’s me!  Whatever it takes I greet the yawning day and the other predawn weirdos. Recently one morning on my way to work a neighborhood dog walker saw me and said, “Wait, you’re the one who wears kids’ snow pants and that cyclops light!”  I nodded, cheeks matching said pants.

After repeatedly dropping my phone, spilling my coffee, tripping over my own feet, and waking everyone up in the house out I go trying to keep my blood pressure and emotions functioning at workable and acceptable levels. I crave structure and habit as much as I love a good ol’ romantic, spontaneous surprise; therefore, these morning adventures tend to appease the rivalry of riff raff that resides and pays rent in my brain.

Many mornings I feel like I am happening upon a private moment between the sun and our side of the Earth both sharing tales of rotations in the night and discussing what is to come for the day ahead. The ever changing glow of this prismatic horizon seems private and at times I feel like I am intruding on a secret. And most every morning, I am in fact, an observer of a beautiful secret.  See, there is this person who shuffle-jogs his way down the sidewalks. In front of what seems like every other house this particular individual stops his gait, reaches down to pick up a rolled up newspaper and gently tosses the paper so it reaches the front door of every journal awaiting home. Sometimes I get a wave; sometimes we simply pass one another in silent acknowledgement. It is this silence that tugs at my heart. This person will not see the relieved face of each groggy neighbor who appreciates not having to go out into the elements to retrieve their news. This person will not hear the hum of happy joints celebrating not having to walk through snow or navigate slippery steps.  This quiet act of kindness engulfs me with tenderness and reminds me of my dad saying, “Jessie, sometimes those who say nothing at all may be the ones climbing the biggest mountains.” 

He does this everyday – yet he asks for no thank you.

He tells no one – yet it happens and it is helpful.

Without even knowing it this man sends a teacher back home, gets her dressed, reminds her that her glasses are on her head and drives her to her classroom where she tries to payback the quiet, random gift of kindness which she observed at 6 a.m. Maybe then one of her students sees another student struggling and decides to smile instead of judge. Maybe. 

We all want to make our mark throughout the days and in this life. 

Many times our “marks” are made by the silent footprints we never see or hear, and this is just as good.