I went into Wal-Mart planning to grab just three things: Fruit Loops, eggs, and waffles. A simple, almost mindless shopping trip. Healthy? Not exactly. But quick. My goal was clear: get in, get out, and go home.

As I navigated the aisles, a woman stopped me. At first, I thought she was asking for money—something I was ready to politely decline. I never carry cash. I tried to keep walking, thinking I could politely excuse myself, but she insisted I listen.

What I heard stopped me in my tracks. She had groceries in her cart, and she needed help to pay for them. She was caring for her family, she explained, her voice trembling as tears rolled down her cheeks. She told me that her daughter had turned her baby over to her care, that her two-month-old grandchild was born addicted to crack, and that she had six grandchildren depending on her.

I felt the weight of her words immediately. These weren’t just stories—I knew them to be real from years of working in an inner-city school, and from what my husband had seen in the hospital. Babies are born addicted all the time, and grandparents often become the unseen heroes, shouldering responsibilities that no one should ever have to bear alone.

She asked me if I would help her buy groceries. I looked at my hands—holding my small list of Fruit Loops, eggs, and waffles—then at her cart. She had shopped smartly, thoughtfully. Bananas, bell peppers, meat, pancakes—practical, nourishing items meant to feed children. I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “Go get diapers for the baby, and meet me at the front.”

Her reaction was immediate. She wept, praising God, whispering “hallelujah” to the cashiers, and trembling as she thanked me over and over. I felt a strange, warm swell in my chest. Yesterday, I had celebrated my 30th birthday surrounded by family, eaten far too much crawfish, and even spent $20 at the casino just for fun. But today—today was something different.

I realized that in those brief moments, we had both been reminded of our shared humanity. She would have food for her family, a small reprieve from the worry that weighed on her daily. And I had been reminded that compassion isn’t complicated. It doesn’t require planning or hesitation. It doesn’t matter whether the story is perfect, or whether the need seems large or small. What matters is showing up, choosing to care, and letting kindness move through you.

By the time I left the store, I carried with me a quiet sense of fulfillment. I hadn’t just bought groceries—I had been exactly where I needed to be at the exact right moment. And perhaps, in some small way, I had made the world a little lighter for someone else.

Sometimes, the most ordinary days hold the most extraordinary lessons.