Hello in There

Sometimes the smallest encounters remain with us long after seemingly more important moments have faded away.

Earlier this week, I took my car to Washington, Pennsylvania, for service. On the way home, I stopped at Panera Bread for a bagel and a cup of coffee.

An older man stood in line ahead of me. He wore a faded Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt, and thinning gray hair covered his head. As he placed his order, he struggled to insert his credit card into the machine. When he finally completed the transaction, he slowly carried his empty cup toward the coffee station.

I placed my order and walked over to get my own coffee. The man was still there, carefully filling his cup.

My first reaction was frustration. I was ready to get my coffee, eat my bagel and begin the hour-and-a-half drive home. Then I caught myself. This man wasn’t intentionally holding anyone up. His slow movements were likely the result of age, declining health or simply a body that no longer moved as quickly as it once had.

I picked up my order and found a table inside the restaurant. A few minutes later, I noticed the man had taken his meal outside. He sat alone beneath an umbrella, eating slowly and staring into the distance.

There was something about that picture that touched me. The faded sweatshirt, the solitary table and the faraway expression on his face created an image of loneliness.

I don’t know anything about him. Perhaps he has a family waiting at home. Maybe he enjoys eating alone and watching the world go by. We should be careful about creating someone’s life story based on a single moment.

Still, John Prine’s beautiful song “Hello in There” came into my mind.

Prine wrote with remarkable compassion about growing older and becoming less visible to the world. In one of the song’s most memorable observations, he reminds us that “old people just grow lonesome.” It is a song about something most of us have witnessed but too often fail to notice: people can slowly disappear from our attention even while sitting directly in front of us.

As I finished my bagel and prepared to leave, I looked outside again. Something told me I shouldn’t simply walk past the man without acknowledging him.

I approached his table and caught his attention.

“Hey, hope to see you again next time,” I said.

For a second, he looked stunned. Then his face changed. He looked up, smiled and replied, “Sure thing.”

That was all. I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t sit down or ask where he was from. I offered only a few words before walking to my car.

But during the long drive home, his face remained with me. I kept thinking about what else I might have said. I could have asked whether he was from Washington. I could have commented on his Steelers sweatshirt. I could have asked if I might join him for a few minutes.

Perhaps he would have welcomed the conversation. Perhaps he would have preferred to be left alone. I will never know because I didn’t take the opportunity to find out.

We move through life surrounded by people whose stories we cannot see. The older person moving slowly in front of us may once have led a company, raised a family, served a community or fought in a war. They may be grieving someone they loved or facing a future that suddenly feels uncertain.

And sometimes they may simply need another human being to notice them.

My few words may not have meant anything to that man. But his smile told me they meant something in that moment.

John Prine’s song is more than a reflection on loneliness. It is a gentle instruction: Slow down. Look around. Notice the people whom the world has begun to overlook.

And when the opportunity presents itself, take a moment to say hello in there.