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My flight back to San Francisco from Denver was an eventful one. The last passenger to board the plane was a young man, probably in his early thirties, who announced to all the passengers that they should not worry because “after a few more drinks, [he] could fly this shit.”

The seats were filled with rolling eyes as he passed by every passenger and found his seat in between two older ladies. He was dubbed “drunk.”

About 15 minutes after the “fasten your seatbelt” sign blinked off, the young man paraded up to the row ahead of me where a lady was sitting in the window seat and a man was sitting in the aisle seat. The middle seat was empty. He promptly asked the man to scoot over so he could sit down. He obliged, and the young man continued his tirade. This time, directed at the man sitting across the aisle. It would soon become apparent that this young man was not drunk. He was sick.

“Hey, man. Where are you from?” he slurred.

“Guatemala,” the man across the aisle replied.

“Do you know what it means to be an American? Do you know what it means to be free?” The Sick Man asked.

“Yes, yes I do,” The Guatemalan replied.

The Sick Man then proceeded to tell The Guatemalan that he could not possibly know what freedom is because Guatemala is actually run by the CIA and Guatemalans aren’t even allowed to think their own thoughts.

The Sick Man was talking above inside-voice level and all the passengers in his vicinity heard his words. There were looks. No, there were snarls. And I caught myself shaking my head and beginning to ignore – chalking up this man to just being crazy. Thinking to myself, “oh man, I’m stuck on this plane with this crazy person for two more hours.”

But The Guatemalan did not flinch with this abrasive behavior. Instead, he patiently replied, stating that The Sick Man’s perception of Guatemala is incorrect. The Sick Man fought his point for a few minutes and then gave up. He then proceeded to ask questions about what The Guatemalan was doing in America.

“I’m on vacation,” he said.

“From what? Building houses?” The Sick Man replied.

“No, I practice Oriental Medicine,” The Guatemalan said, calmly crossing his hands over his knee.

The Sick Man then proceeded to divulge all of his life’s secrets. Full of half-truths and probable full-lies, he told the tale of how his parents are billionaires yet they abandoned him. He had a girlfriend who he got pregnant and she left him on the side of the road. He has no one, nowhere, nothing. The only thing he can count on is his self-diagnosed diabetes and hemorrhoids.

I wanted to stop listening at this point. I wanted to turn away from him and for one second, I thought to myself, he needs help and no one would give it to him.

“I’m sick. And nobody loves me,” he whispered, folding his head into his hands.

And then the most beautiful thing happened. Something that I never expected. Something I can guarantee has not happened to The Sick Man in his immediate lifetime. The Guatemalan listened. Not only did he listen, but he spoke. He spoke patiently, carefully choosing his words, filling each syllable with love. At 35,000 feet in the air, he lent a helping hand.

“You control your destiny,” The Guatemalan cooed. “You are in charge of your life, of what happens to you. You need to take care of yourself above anyone else. Think about what you need, what makes you happy, what is good for you. You are in control.”

The conversation continued with The Sick Man turning to The Guatemalan for heart-wrenching advice. Stating at one point that he didn’t have anything in the world to live for.

The Guatemalan replied, “That’s not true, you have you to live for. You have you to take care of, to love, to treat right. Make changes in your life that make you happy and others will respect you for them.”

At one point during the conversation, after The Sick Man got up to use the restroom, the flight attendant came over to The Guatemalan. He thanked him for “deflecting” the “situation” and apologized for the inconvenience.

The Guatemalan’s response? “He just wants to talk. He has no one to listen.”

This may seem silly, but it touched me. This man is sick and yes, The Guatemalan’s advice may have fallen on deaf ears, and it may have not made a difference in The Sick Man’s life at all, but he said it. He didn’t turn away, rolling his eyes, attributing this crazy man to being just that – crazy. The Guatemalan reached out and treated him like a human being regardless of whatever mental illness possessed this man. And it was beautiful. It was true human kindness. Asking nothing in return.

The conversation ensued. They covered topics of spirituality, parenthood, family, priorities, health and more. The Sick Man eventually drifted to sleep. I was left totally amazed by The Guatemalan’s patience and his willingness to help a complete stranger who had first attacked his heritage and personal integrity. Two things this man very blatantly holds close to his heart. He put aside his pride and provided this man with attention and affection he was so clearly craving.

When the plane landed, The Sick Man woke up. He yelled loud enough for the whole plane to hear, “Welcome to my hometown, California. The State of Marijuana. Smoke a joint!”

And while everyone else rolled their eyes yet again, muttered under their breath how crazy this guy was, The Guatemalan reached out and touched The Sick Man’s arm and reiterated what he’d been saying all along; “Take care of yourself.”

I smiled.

Not just for me, but for The Sick Man who may or may not look back on this plane ride and see that a complete stranger cared. Cared about another complete stranger. And proved that the test for human kindness can be passed.

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