Tick. Tick. Tick. I envisioned the remaining minutes of my lunch hour fading away as I peered at the long line of customers in front of me at the local pharmacy. My plans to zip in, pick up my dog’s seizure medication, zip out, and still have a few minutes to decompress before heading back to work faded with each passing minute. Letting out a flurry of dramatic internal sighs, I inched forward. 

As I neared the front of the line, I observed an older gentleman sitting in a folding chair adjacent to the line of customers sporting a black “Marine Veteran” ballcap. I assumed he was waiting for the pharmacist to fill his script. I continued to observe him as I waited my turn. A part of me felt driven to shake his hand and thank him for his service prior to leaving. As the daughter of a veteran, it was important to me to recognize veterans for their service with a simple handshake and thank you whenever I had the opportunity. 

Finally at the front of the line, I uneventfully acquired my dog’s medication. Crinkly white bag in hand, I left the counter and made a beeline to the man who remained seated in the chair. Extending my hand to shake his, I said, “Thank you for your service, sir.” With a surprised look on his face, he stood to meet my gaze and embraced my hand in a firm shake. 

“You’re welcome,” he replied. After a brief pause, he continued. “You know, it’s not very often that a nice young lady like yourself comes and talks to me. Most people just ignore me,” he said with a downcast look.

His response grieved my heart. 

“My dad served in Vietnam,” I replied, “and I know he and many others who served our country didn’t receive a thank you or a warm welcome upon their completion of service, so I always make a point of thanking gentlemen like yourself. I honor you for your service to this country.” 

The man’s eyes became glossy as I briefly relayed the events surrounding my dad’s return to the U.S. after his deployment to Vietnam and the disrespect he endured from fellow Americans. After listening quietly, the man shared that he too had served in Vietnam, but rarely spoke about it. 

“It’s only when people like yourself pull it out of me that I talk about it. And then the PTSD really shows its face.” 

I didn’t know if it would help or hurt this man to ask questions about his service, so I only listened. He began sharing how some of the horrific sights of fellow Marines killed or wounded continued to harass his mind all these years later. He too shared about his reception upon returning home from Vietnam. Like my dad, he was spat upon and littered with hateful words from other Americans. 

“I was a good Marine,” he said while tears began streaming down his weathered cheeks. “I was a good Marine.” 

My heart burst with compassion for him. I sought to comfort the man but remained unsure of how to do so, so mainly just listened and nodded. I thanked him again for his service and apologized on behalf of those who had treated him with such hatred. As his demeanor began to soften in this brief but tender moment, the pharmacist called his name and held up a white paper bag with a smile. 

Regaining his composure, he said, “I’d better go pick that up before I get into trouble!” A hint of a smile graced his glistened cheeks.

Unsure of what to say or how to end the impactful conversation, I muttered a simple, “God bless you,” as we parted ways. 

“God bless you too,” he responded before diverting to the pharmacist. 

Bolting to my car, tears began to fall. It wasn’t the horrors this man relayed about his time in combat that affected me so, nor the retelling of the treatment fellow Americans gave him upon his return from overseas. Those stories surely broke my heart, but it was his initial statement that shook me most: “Most people just ignore me.” 

The kind man’s shock that someone — anyone — had not only noticed him but spoken to him not only surprised me, but wrecked me. All I did was give 10 minutes of my time to thank a man for his service and to listen to his story. The sacrifice on my end was minimal. It cost me little yet seemed to truly surprise this broken man that someone cared. He seemed desperate for affection and recognition. It was evident his heart was parched for love, connection, and for someone to show a hint of interest in him and his life. 

Following the interaction, I began to ponder how many other people felt similarly — that no one notices them. That no one cares. That no one will make time for them. I suspected that there were many, and it further broke my heart.

I too have endured times when I felt completely invisible to and ignored by those around me. As a shy introvert, I have always struggled to build friendships and connect with others. It was humiliating during high school to eat lunch alone while witnessing the hordes of students conversing happily just a stone’s throw away. The embarrassment eventually became too much, and I started eating lunch tucked away in a corner of the library. Most people just ignored me. That man had no idea just how much I could relate. Looking back, I know that despite the feelings of invisibility and insignificance, there was One who always saw me and was always with me: Jesus.

Jesus always made time for the invisible, caring for those whom society was most likely to ignore or forget. He taught His disciples to do the same. Scripture is rich with such directives. The psalmist states the command beautifully: “Give justice to the poor and the orphan; uphold the rights of the oppressed and the destitute. Rescue the poor and helpless; deliver them from the grasp of evil people” (Psalm 82:3-4). As followers of Christ, we are called to care for the hurting and the oppressed, and to notice the invisible. We are called to resist our innate inclination to be so preoccupied with our own lives that we ignore those around us.

As this brief encounter in the local pharmacy illustrated to me, there is no shortage of people around us in need of our attention, encouragement, and love. They need to know the love of Jesus, and as His followers, we can be the conduit by which they are introduced to His love. If we would only ask ourselves whom can we show love to each day, we will increasingly notice those around us in need of a kind word or a listening ear. We can be the hands and feet of Jesus in our schools, workplaces, and communities, if only we are willing. If the cry of our hearts would remain, “I am willing, Lord. Send me,” the Holy Spirit will open our eyes to those most in need of our time and attention.

It is my hope that instead of that man in the pharmacy and others like him thinking, “Most people just ignore me,” it would increasingly become, “I am seen, and I am loved.”