My car broke down several months ago on the way back from visiting a close cousin. Because of the high cost to repair it, it’s been sitting in a shop ever since—and probably will for another four months. So, for the time being, I am officially vehiculess. (A term Tracy actually coined almost 20 years ago. I think she cursed me.)
But I haven’t let it get me down. I’ve fully embraced public transportation as my new way of getting around. And yes, there’s plenty to complain about when it comes to riding the bus. I could write paragraphs. But that’s not what this is about. What I’ve realized is that this unexpected inconvenience has been quietly teaching me—and I’m genuinely grateful for the lessons.
Today, as I sat on a bench in the hot sun, waiting, I was thankful for even the smallest breeze. I tilted my little droid phone into the shade to double-check that I was, in fact, at the right stop to get home.
While I was sitting there, a man in a suit approached and asked how far away Lake Mead and Rainbow were.
“Quite a ways,” I said. “I wouldn’t walk it.”
I pulled up a map on my phone so he could see where we were. He nodded and said he might walk it anyway, but I told him the bus should be arriving soon—it might be worth the wait.
Now, I may not be the most outgoing person in the world, but I do carry the Lane family gift for gab. As we waited, we got to talking.
He told me he was from El Salvador. His wife and six-year-old daughter were still there. He was on his way to look for a second job—trying to save enough money to bring them to the United States legally. In order to maintain his path to citizenship, he had to stay in the U.S. for six months and one day out of every year. That meant he couldn’t go home for long and couldn’t take on permanent jobs if he wanted to visit his family. He could only afford one trip back per year. Back and forth wasn’t an option.
He didn’t have much in terms of possessions, but he spoke with unwavering gratitude. He told me how thankful he was to Heavenly Father for his health, for work, and for the opportunity to build a better life. He believed—truly believed—that God was taking care of him.
He was one of the most genuinely grateful people I’ve ever met. And one of the happiest. No surprise there—those two things often travel together.
When the bus finally came, we boarded. A few minutes later, another man who had paid cash for his ride turned to my new friend and offered him the rest of his bus pass.
“I won’t be needing it anymore,” he said, and handed it over.
That quiet kindness nearly undid me.
We see people struggling and feel sorry for them—and yes, many of them carry more weight than they should have to. But in moments like this, I realize they often carry something else too. Something I envy. They’ve learned how to be happy.
And maybe that’s the real secret: happiness doesn’t come from having everything—it comes from being grateful for what you already have.
