What an Everyday Mercy Taught Me About America
Is America good? It’s the most natural question to ask on the Fourth of July.
But I don’t think it’s the right question. The better one is: Are Americans good?
My answer arises from an unexpected experience I had when building my young company.
One morning—on the anniversary of September 11th, no less—I was struggling with some fundamental questions about life, relationships, and humanity. In the middle of my funk, I decided I wanted to be outside. It was a nice late summer day, and I took my dog, Axel, with me. Axel is a German Shepherd, and he was still a baby, at just 50 pounds—not the 120-pound monster he grew into.
Axel and I wound up at a nearby coffee shop. As usual, I tied him to a table outside, while I went in to order my drink. There was a man in front of me placing his order. Just as he was finishing up and being handed his coffee, I heard a loud yelp outside.
I spun around. Axel had jumped up and was running across the parking lot toward the main street, literally dragging the table behind him as he ran. The metal legs of it were making an ear-splitting screeching sound as they slid across the pavement. The whole thing seemed to be happening in slow motion. I thought this stuff only happened in movies like Beethoven—not to me.
I sprinted out the door. Axel had now made it to the other side of the parking lot and headed for the sidewalk, which was on the other side of a row of cars. He paused to look back at me running after him, then he took off running again alongside one of the parked cars. As he did, the table smacked into the back of a car and dragged along the side of it, scratching it badly the entire way.
By the time Axel made it to the sidewalk, I had caught up with him and smothered him in my arms to calm him down. He was scared and struggling to catch his breath. I unhooked the leash from the table and sat with him in the grass for a few seconds, petting him and telling him that everything was alright.
I looked up and saw the front door open. Out came the man who had been standing in front of me to order. He was an older gentlemen with gray hair, very nicely (but casually) dressed. He seemed incredibly calm.
“Is that your car?” I shouted at him. “I’m so sorry.”
“Good morning,” he said, waving his hand as he walked toward me and Axel.
I turned around to examine the damage. That’s when I saw what kind of vehicle it was: a top-of-the-line BMW that probably ran $100,000. The back side had a massive dent in it, and the table had scratched the side of the car from the back tire to the front driver’s side mirror, like someone had keyed it but far worse.
“Yes, it’s my car,” the man said. “Is your dog okay?” He bent down to pet him. “What’s his name?”
“Axel.” I continued to apologize profusely.
“Can I get him some water?” the man interrupted. He nodded in agreement to himself, as if to answer to his own question. He walked back inside and emerged a minute later with a couple cups of water. We both knelt down and helped Axel drink, without speaking a word to one another.
This man and I were probably only together for a total of three minutes that morning. I spent the last minute fumbling around again for solutions to the problem. I offered to give him my number. I said something non-sensical about my insurance—in truth, I had no idea what one is supposed to do in a situation like that.
The man simply smiled warmly and put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
“Have a good day,” he said, standing up. He looked at me intently, as if he needed me to understand something. “I’ve got to get going.” With his coffee in hand, he walked to the driver’s side door. He gave me one last reassuring nod before he got in, then smiled again and gave me one of those casual salutes with a wink.
“Don’t worry about it,” he repeated.
That level of kindness is something I had never been experienced before from a stranger. When he said “Don’t worry about it,” I couldn’t accept that he really meant it. But he meant it.
That experience had a profound influence on my life from that moment forward. I sensed that that single moment of grace created and brought forth more goodness in the world, and in my own heart, than the prior 80 hours of work that week which I had put into building my young business. It was a creation of a different order. It was far more powerful, far more generative, and powerfully human.
And I’ve come to realize that that grace, that generosity of spirit, that fundamental goodness—it’s far more common than I knew.
Which brings me back to that opening question: Are Americans good?
Yes, is my answer. I have experienced that goodness time and again—often in less dramatic and generous ways than that day in the coffee shop parking lot, but important no less. And so long as we are, America itself is good, too.
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