Room for Milk

As I Was Saying is a forum for a variety of perspectives to foster faith-related conversations among our readers with the goal of mutual learning, even in disagreement. Apart from articles written by editorial staff, these perspectives do not necessarily reflect the views of The Banner.

Rain was battering the skylights far above the hospital cafeteria as I tried repeatedly to explain to a harried barista the importance of leaving room in my coffee cup for extra milk.

After four days at my son’s bedside in the local children’s hospital, I’d taken a rare moment to dash down to the hospital’s coffee kiosk.

Using my communication board, I kept trying to politely help her understand what I wanted, but she kept replying that this was not possible. It took us going back and forth three times for me to realize she was saying no because she wasn’t the one who would pour my coffee. I had completely missed that the coffee machine sat on the counter directly in front of me. It was my job to fill my own cup, leaving as much or as little space for milk as I desired. Flustered, I dropped my communication board.

With my communication board picked up, I sheepishly put my cup under the coffee machine and pressed the pour button—and then forgot to stop pressing it. I only realized it was still pouring when hot coffee cascaded over the cup’s brim. It scalded my hand when I attempted to empty a little coffee from the cup so there would still be room for milk.

The days of constant worry about my son, punctuated by nights of little sleep, had caught up with me all at once. The fear-driven adrenaline that had carried me through one difficult moment after another, helping me be strong for my son despite my own disabilities and medical challenges, dissipated. I was suddenly so very weary.

Trying to regain my composure, I attempted to put the cardboard protector sleeve on upside down. A woman beside me who was getting her own coffee saw what was happening. She gently took my cup, extracted the now stuck, upside-down sleeve, slipped it on the right way, and carefully attached the lid. Then she smiled and wished me a good day.

I thanked her—and as I walked away, my eyes filled with tears I had been holding back. Hurriedly wiping them away, I returned with coffee in hand to my son’s hospital room.

Three weeks later, as my son now continues his recovery at home, I still think about the kindness of the woman at the coffee stand. What she did was so very small—I doubt she even remembered the encounter for very long. But I remember. Her kindness and gentleness came at the exact moment I needed both.

Reflecting on that moment, I understand a little better why the Apostle Paul listed kindness and gentleness as two parts of the fruit of the Spirit in Galatians 5:22–23. Small acts of kindness rarely make headlines. They are easily overlooked in a world that celebrates bigger, flashier gestures. Yet they often make a profound difference to people whose stories—and burdens—we might never know.

Newspapers report on major gifts from generous philanthropists. Social media often celebrates large public acts of generosity.

The big acts, certainly, make a difference. But on that difficult day in the hospital, it was the small kindness of one woman gently helping another at the coffee stand that helped me most of all.