My husband moves slower on weekends. It’s not laziness. It’s just his pace when there’s no work pressure, no schedule to keep, no urgency dictating every movement. And on this particular Saturday, knowing we had errands to get done, I went into the store looking for him. Annoyed. We had a list. We had a timeline. We had things to do. And where was he? Not where he was supposed to be.
I found him in an aisle, reading ingredients to an elderly man. Not just reading. Helping him calculate ratios he couldn’t do himself anymore. Listening to stories about the man’s acres of land nearby. His voice patient. His posture relaxed. Completely present in a conversation with a stranger while I stood there mentally ticking off all the things we still needed to accomplish. And I felt my annoyance start to shift. Soften. Transform into something that felt uncomfortably like shame.
Because here I was, frustrated about errands. About time. About tasks. And my husband was doing something infinitely more important. He was giving this elderly man something he probably didn’t get much of anymore: attention. Patience. The sense that someone cared enough to stop. To help. To listen. And I’d been about to interrupt. To pull him away. To prioritize our to-do list over this man’s need for connection.
I forgot our errands in that moment. Forgot the time crunch. Forgot the tasks waiting. And I thought: If we all took time to help each other with little things, how good we’d feel. Not just the person being helped. But the helper too. Because kindness isn’t just transactional. It’s not just about solving someone else’s problem. It’s about connection. About remembering that we’re all here together. That sometimes, the most important thing we can do is slow down and see the person in front of us.
My husband wasn’t trying to be a hero. Wasn’t performing for an audience. He’d just seen someone who needed help and stopped. Natural as breathing. And in stopping, he’d given that man more than assistance with ingredient calculations. He’d given him dignity. Recognition. The knowledge that he wasn’t invisible. That someone still saw him as worthy of time and attention.
I took a picture. Not to post. Not for likes. Just to remember. To capture a moment that taught me something I needed to learn. That our errands, our tasks, our carefully planned schedules—they’re not what life is actually about. Life is about these moments. These pauses. These choices to help when we could just as easily walk past. And my husband, without even thinking about it, had chosen to stop. Had chosen presence over productivity. Had chosen a person over a to-do list.
When he finally finished talking with the elderly man, he turned and saw me. Smiled that slightly sheepish smile of someone who knows they’ve been caught being kind. And I smiled back. Not annoyed anymore. Grateful. Grateful to be married to someone who moves slower on weekends not because he’s lazy, but because he’s paying attention. Because he’s available. Because he’s the kind of person who sees someone who needs help and stops. Every time.
We finished our errands eventually. Got everything done that needed doing. But what I’ll remember about that day isn’t checking items off a list. It’s watching my husband read ingredients to a stranger. It’s realizing that I’d almost missed witnessing something beautiful because I was too focused on tasks. It’s learning, once again, that the best moments in life are often unplanned. Unscheduled. The ones that happen when we let go of control and just respond to the needs in front of us.
I remembered I snagged a good one. A man who doesn’t just talk about kindness but lives it. Who doesn’t need recognition or praise to do the right thing. Who just sees someone struggling and helps. That’s the kind of person I want to be. The kind of person my husband already is. And that day in the store, watching him from a distance, I felt proud. Not of what we’d accomplished. But of who he is. And grateful that his example keeps teaching me to slow down. To look around. To help. To choose people over productivity. Because that’s where real life happens.