the difference
It’d been a long 12 hours of night shift nursing. Crumbled worn, ready to get home to my people, I took the back hallway to escape to the parking deck quicker and stopped at a restroom close to the chapel.
I was surprised to find a lady there washing her hands at that early hour and immediately recognized her. With a twinkle in her eye, “𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠”-𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑑 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.
I attempted to look cool and classy as she went to drying her hands; but let’s be honest, I looked like I’d just finished a 12 hour shift. As I put my work bag on the floor(this restroom still lacked coat hooks), “𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲?” I managed a quickly stammered “𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚” and escaped behind a stall door.
“𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?” 𝐺𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒?
I thought I eluded answering as the restroom door opened again and silence entered. Relief surged, not wanting to share how hard the night had been, washed my hands, and headed out the door myself.
I breathed easy thinking the rest of the walk to the deck could be welcomed silence. Rounding the last corner, there she was, talking to another lady.
I gave a proper southern soft nod with accompanied half smile, then felt my hand clasped, “𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲, 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?” 𝑈𝑔ℎ, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑. Stammering again, I spilled the truth of the previous 12 hours like a never ending fountain, how I was quite certain that I didn’t make a difference, that I felt just as broken as the night.
She embraced solid and gentle, much like her words-her words, her hands, her heart would impact my life when we met again.
