I walked into a Walmart in Burley, Idaho a few days before Christmas. The first clerk I saw was moving at top speed. My eyes followed the line of shopping carts that stretched toward the back of the store. As fast as she could scan an item, another was handed to her. Dozens of men in leather jackets stood beside the carts like sentinels.
It looked like a scene from a movie, really almost too much to believe. A motorcycle club had raised tens of thousands of dollars to provide for children in need. With no cameras, no press release, no staged photos, they came and filled fifty carts; maybe more. The clerk scanned each item, one beep at a time.
Watching those “bikers” took me back to a man I once knew named Randy. Honestly, he had the kind of look that could have made him Danny Trejo’s stunt double. Rough. Everywhere. Tough on the outside. He rebuilt cars, rode motorcycles, and carried himself like someone you wouldn’t want to cross.
Which is why I’ll never forget the day I say across his living room from him as he wept. Tears rolled down his face as he shared a story so deeply personal that it broke through that tough exterior.
It was this beautiful, unexpected, unguarded moment of grace that caught me completely by surprise.
We usually talk about grace in church language. God’s gift. Unmerited favor. Forgiveness. But grace also has another meaning: courteous goodwill. A way of treating people with kindness when no one’s keeping score. And that’s what I saw in Randy that day. A man most people would peg as the definition of “unflinching toughness” showing me a side of himself I never expected.
And that’s what I saw again, years later, in that Burley Walmart. Men who might have been easy to stereotype — loud bikes, leather jackets, hard faces — quietly giving everything they could to children they didn’t know. Not for a headline. Not for credit. Just because it was needed.
Grace has a way of finding you mid-stride. You’re running errands, lost in the rush of your own schedule, thinking about deadlines or bills or how many things are still undone. And suddenly, grace is right there in front of you — interrupting, reframing, and softening.
I almost missed that moment with Randy that day. The long list of things I had to do that day almost led me to message my friend with my apologies that I wouldn’t be able to make it that day. But there I was anyway, being reminded in a gentle but forceful way that not everything is measured by efficiency or output. Sometimes the most important thing is the kindness that shows up. No permission required.
Grace also doesn’t announce itself. It slips in quietly — like tears on a tough man’s face, or a line of shopping carts filled with gifts, or a hand offered when you least deserve or expect it.
I forget this most days. I keep track of what isn’t finished, what hasn’t arrived, what feels behind schedule. But grace doesn’t care about my timetable. It just shows up when it’s needed. Sometimes in a stranger. Sometimes in a friend. Sometimes in me, if I let it.
I’m learning that I don’t have to go hunting for it. Grace has its own way of finding me, even when I’m in motion, even when I’m distracted, even when I think I don’t have time.
And that is enough.
Thanks for reading, and before you go. . .
I’m Aaron Pace. I write from the middle of things — life, business, fatherhood, faith, and the slow work of becoming someone I can live with. Not as an expert, but as someone trying to pay attention.
If this piece resonated with you, I’d be honored if you followed along here on Medium. I write — not because I’ve arrived, but because I’m finally moving again.
If any of this resonates with you, I wrote a book you might appreciate.
It’s called You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free — a collection of my reflections on identity, meaning, and building a life I don’t want to run away from.
You can check it out here:
No comments:
Post a Comment