How a Simple Token Can Open Your Heart
On grace, humility, and the presence we easily miss
I was standing in line at Walgreens, waiting to get my latest COVID shot. It was an ordinary errand, the kind of task you don’t expect to remember. But I ended up receiving something much more than a vaccine that day — something quiet and profound.
In front of me stood a man who looked younger than me, with tattoos running up and down his arms and neck. He had earrings, a shaved head, and a kind of roughness about him that made my judgmental reflex kick in immediately. He looks like a dirtbag, I thought. Probably a loser. It was automatic, unfair — but there it was.
Then I noticed something.
Hanging from the back of his backpack was a small token — a 30-day sobriety chip. Just a simple coin. But in that moment, it hit me like a wave. My judgment melted into humility.
Suddenly, I felt nothing but compassion and gratitude — not just for him, but for the chance to see more clearly. I don’t know from personal experience what it’s like to battle addiction, but I know enough to understand that 30 days is no small thing. That token was a quiet triumph.
As I stood there behind him, I found myself silently offering up prayers — little blessings. I hoped he would make it to 60 days, to a year. I hoped he would find strength and peace. I imagined him becoming a role model to others on the same difficult path. I just… wanted the best for him.
When he finished at the pharmacy and turned to leave, he said something kind to me. I can’t even remember what the words were — something simple, like “have a good day.” But I’ll never forget the light in his eyes. There was a radiance in his expression, something that seemed to beam directly from the center of him. It was beautiful, disarming. I smiled back, caught off guard by the sudden warmth of his presence.
Then he cocked his head, looked at me more closely, and asked, “Do I know you?”
“No,” I told him, “I don’t think so.”
He said he worked at a local recovery center and asked if I lived in Rehoboth or Lewes.
“No,” I replied, “I live here in Georgetown.”
He was surprised — maybe because there was a connection he hadn’t expected. We exchanged a few more kind words before he nodded and left. But I was left with this lingering sense of light, a fullness of heart I hadn’t felt in a while. I couldn’t stop smiling.
Can we see God’s light in others?
And the truth is, I don’t know his story. I don’t know what trauma or pain he’s carried, or how long addiction had its grip on him. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the kindness in his face, the quiet strength he carried, the unmistakable presence he radiated.
Had I been staring at my phone or tapping my foot impatiently — lost in my own assumptions — I might have missed it. I might have stayed closed off. But that little token opened my heart. It was a small thing, yet it cracked open something in me and let the light in.
Maybe that’s what encountering Jesus is like, similar to the walk to Emmaus. We never know where He will show up — in whom, or in what moment. Sometimes we miss Him because we’re too absorbed in our own frustrations, our own expectations of how the world should be. But if we stay open, even slightly, God has a way of slipping through the cracks.
That man probably had no idea he gave me a gift that day. But I sat there in Walgreens afterward, during the 20-minute waiting period, just basking in the goodness of it. I’m not a naturally patient person, but I was content to sit with what I had received — the peace, the presence, the humbling grace.
We can see ourselves in others
As I waited in a nearby seating area, the line for the pharmacy grew long. A young woman reached the back of it and let out an exasperated, “Jesus Christ,” full of irritation. I understood her. I’ve felt that same frustration many times — the way even a long line at Walgreens can feel like one more insult from a world that never quite lets up.
I couldn’t speak to her, but I wished I could pass on something — a token, maybe. A reminder that God is still here, still working through the people we least expect, in places we tend to overlook.
Maybe she was looking for peace in the wrong places. I know I often do the same.
But that day, because I was willing — just barely — to look up and open my heart, I received a glimpse of God’s hand.
It came through a man I nearly dismissed.
A man carrying a token that carried a story.
A man who, for a brief and beautiful moment, reminded me to keep my eyes open.
A prayer
Today, may we have eyes to see beyond appearances, and hearts ready to recognize grace wherever it quietly waits to be found.