My lighthouse to kindness.

The light remains, even on days when kindness feels hard to understand.

My wife and I had just finished dinner and were walking around the neighborhood. Then, I saw her – an old lady squinting at mailboxes in the dark. She was trying to find her mailbox. But the street lamp above her was broken.

I thought I would help her.

But instead, I froze and heard a voice in my head, “Why bother?“

And I know where that voice came from.

Earlier that day, during my weekly call with my parents, the conversation started very joyful, delightful, and recharging. I already knew that they had taken my grandparents to Japan for the week because they had been sending photos every day. But I pretended I was busy, and didn’t check the messages during the week, so they could continue and talk about all the stories.   

We were laughing, and eventually, my dad told me this fun story: My grandpa was singing in a karaoke bar for too long. It was over the business hours, and the staff had to politely ask them to leave.

“That’s… crazy,” I said, “I’ve never seen Grandpa like that.”

“Yeah,” my dad replied,  “He also said, we should go with Kai-Chun next time.”

Something stunned me in that sentence. A bitterness rose in my heart from the laughter. But it wasn’t immediately clear to me why. Then, after we hung up the phone, I went to my wife, still having this strange feeling. I tried to initiate a newer conversation with her to reboot the weekend.

But instead, I just started crying.

She asked me what happened, but I couldn’t articulate the reason either.

I went on to cry for… I don’t know how long; until I finally understood. I was just sad, saddened by the fact that not only had I missed witnessing this rare, joyful side of my grandpa, but even at that moment, he was thinking of me. Me – the grandson who had chosen "exciting opportunities overseas" that he didn’t understand, who hadn’t thought about him while chasing all those dreams.

Now, as I watched the old lady struggling to find her mailbox in the dark, the cynical voice in my head continued to yell at me: Why bother? I am not even there for my own grandparents.

Why should I care about someone else's?

As I grappled with this dark thought, I felt my wife's hand slip from mine.

She walked towards the old lady, with a smile on her face.

"Excuse me," my wife said, "can I help you find your mailbox?"

The old woman's face brightened, relief evident in her posture as she accepted the offer. I watched my wife patiently help locate the right mailbox. When they were done, the old lady turned to us both – inexplicably including me in her thanks – before parting away.

Throughout this exchange, I remained frozen, a spectator to a simple act of kindness that simply did not make sense to me at the time.

As we resumed our walk, my wife's hand found mine again. Its warmth contrasted the cold shame I felt. She didn't say a word, but I felt the cynicism that had been building within me begin to crumble.

Slowly, I started to think about all the things that didn’t make sense.

I thought about my grandfather, 80 years old, having a great time at a Japanese karaoke bar, still reserving a place in his heart for his absent grandson. I thought about my wife, giving me the space to cry without knowing why.

I guess… Maybe, love and kindness don’t make sense.

And maybe, that is because they don’t have to.

Just like that, that simple act from my wife reminds me of this, something important, dumb, but will be sufficient for me to be brave enough to be kind again.