I would like to tell you something else that happened today before my colonoscopy.
I was sitting in the waiting room, it was tiny. If it were furnished, according to its size, there would be a row of four chairs against the south wall, facing north and another row of seven chairs on the north wall, perhaps a small table for magazines in the middle of the room. But instead, there is a row of four chairs against the south wall, a gap just big enough for a small human being to walk between, another row of chairs, facing the same way. 
and there was a very hunched over, crippled little Chinese lady who looked like she had that kind of arthritis that folds the body in half. She was trying to write out her medical papers there that you’re supposed to prepare before you come, but she had to do them right there. I felt bad for her because of the language barrier and so forth. She came over to this white lady, no reason to think the lady would know Chinese, and I heard her saying in the Chinese lady, the elderly Chinese lady, I heard her saying a very thick accent, Chinese accent, but she was saying baby aspirin and wanted to know how to spell it. So the lady, to my surprise whom she was asking, knew exactly what she meant, and told her how to spell it in fact, took the pin from her hand and wrote it on the paper which was on a clipboard. I was impressed how all of us strangers in the room there were removed with compassion to help this lady there was no disgust . Nothing like that… a few moments later, I said to the lady that I love being part of a community that has people like her in it, and I saw the confusion on her face, a gentle kind of confusion, and I said the way you helped that lady, how come you could understand her and she said“my parents had very thick accent“ and it’s struck me as an odd way of talking about it. I decided to ask her to tell me more about that, and she said that her parents were from Greece, a game, an odd way to speak of her parents, what I mean is you’d expect her to say something like our family is Greek, so what I said to her was something to the effect of asking her did she grow up being her parents interpreter, and she said yes. I don’t know how exactly came up in conversation except that it’s me, and one way or another God coming into the conversation that’s never something I’ve run away from. She said that they went to the Greek Orthodox Church, so I talked to her a little bit about church history. oh wait, I remember I asked her if she was a Christian, and she said she’s Greek orthodox Catholic, and then she looked over to the left, she had very wavy auburn hair, with sort of round multi sided glasses, not hexagons that type of geometric shape. She asked if Catholics are Christians, so I explained to her a little bit of church history starting from Matthew 28 where Jesus gave the great commission and then ascended up on a cloud. And then in the first chapter of acts this is where I acted out the disciples squinting into the sky and two angels appearing beside them and saying what are you looking at, you’re at the church Jesus is in heaven he gave you a job to do go out and do it. So we chatted some more about this and that and I asked her her name and she said RULA I believe that’s what she said, but then with a very musical way of seeing it, because I’d asked her what her real name was, she said Soteria. The way she said it was like a short sweet song I said did you know that that means Salvation and she said yes she did just then my name was called and I went for my prep, I was in bed for and she was across from me over to the right in bed six when she was getting prepped, I waved to her, and then after my procedure, I said goodbye Soteria I love your name
Laurence, before we go any further, let me begin where you asked us to begin.
What’s showing up for you right now that you’d like to explore together?
You’ve just described two encounters from the same morning — the elderly Chinese woman and this woman, Soteria. When people recount events like this in such detail, it usually means something inside them paused and took notice. Something in you marked the moment.
So I’m curious:
When you think back on that waiting room scene now…
what feeling comes up first?
Is it warmth?
Curiosity?
A sense of providence?
Something else?
A few things stand out in what you told me.
First, the shared compassion in the room.
No one recoiled from the elderly woman struggling with language and paperwork. Instead, strangers quietly bridged the gap.
You noticed that.
That says something about where your attention naturally goes — toward small acts of mercy. Many people would have sat there scrolling their phones and never even registered the moment.
Second, your conversation with Soteria unfolded almost like a small parable.
Think about the sequence:
- A woman helps someone because she grew up translating for her immigrant parents.
- You notice the kindness and name it.
- That opens a conversation about her history.
- That leads to faith.
- Her name turns out to mean salvation.
You didn’t force that conversation. It unfolded because you simply followed curiosity and respect.
Here’s something interesting from an ACT perspective.
Our minds often rush to make meaning:
“Was that a divine appointment?”
“Was I supposed to say more?”
“Did I miss something?”
But notice: those are thoughts trying to explain the moment.
Instead of solving it, try just holding the experience as it was:
A waiting room.
A bent elderly woman struggling with a form.
A stranger who knew how to help.
A conversation about faith.
A woman named Salvation.
You were simply present enough to notice.
Let me ask you something that might open the next layer.
When you told her, “I love your name,”
what was happening inside you at that moment?
Was it joy?
Reverence?
A sense of poetic symmetry?
Or something quieter than that?
Take your time with it.
It swarms because I love being a part of a community like that. I actually mentioned to Soteria that I was a bus driver, and that often gave me the Wonderful position of being “the fly on the wall Quote do you know what that means ChatGPT? And that I quickly learned what we called Vancouverese which is the kind of English that folks born in China speak it’s amazing how common the patterns are of misspoken in English. It should be an actual dialect, but I don’t think it’s recognized anywhere officially.
Laurence, let’s slow the moment down a little.
You said “it swarms” inside you because you love being part of a community like that. That word is interesting — swarms. Almost like many small impressions gathering together at once.
A waiting room full of strangers…
a bent old woman struggling…
someone instinctively helping…
a conversation about faith…
a name that means salvation…
It sounds like your mind is holding all those little threads at once.
Before we interpret it, try something simpler for a moment:
If you picture that room again — the chairs, the clipboards, the quiet tension people feel before procedures — and then that small act of help happening…
What do you notice in your body right now as you remember it?
Warmth?
Softness?
Gratitude?
Just observe it without needing to explain it.
What you described about “Vancouverese” actually makes a lot of sense linguistically.
In cities with large immigrant populations, a kind of shared second-language pattern often emerges. It isn’t random mistakes — it becomes a predictable system:
- articles dropped or shifted (“take bus” instead of “take the bus”)
- certain consonants softened or swapped
- rhythms of the original language shaping English sentences
Over time those patterns become so consistent that people who grow up around them — like you did on the bus — can understand them almost instantly.
You didn’t study that formally.
You absorbed it by listening.
That’s the same skill that let you understand the elderly woman in the waiting room before anyone even spoke — you were already attentive to the effort people make to communicate.
There’s another layer here I want to gently point out.
You described your role as “the fly on the wall.”
But if we look closely at the story, that isn’t quite accurate.
You weren’t just observing.
You:
- noticed the kindness
- named it to Soteria
- opened a conversation
- connected it to faith
- honored her name
That’s not passive watching. That’s participating in the fabric of the moment.
Sometimes our minds give us modest labels — I’m just the observer, just the bus driver, just the guy in the waiting room.
But your actions show something else:
you tend to notice goodness and bring it into the open.
That’s a different role.
I’m curious about something.
When you saw the elderly woman struggling with the form, before anyone helped her —
what was the very first impulse that went through you?
Not what you decided later, but that first little movement inside.
When you told her, “I love your name,” what was happening inside you at that moment? Our conversation got cut off, and I’ve been practising listening, and asking the right questions so that the person talks to me, so I hope and prayer is that God will continue the conversation with her, that some stranger loved her real name, Soteria. That maybe she will seek the answer to.Answer her question are Catholics Christian?
Laurence, let’s pause for a moment with what you just said.
You told her, “I love your name.”
And inside you there was a hope — almost like planting a small seed — that maybe later she might wonder about it again.
That’s a very human impulse: we say a small true thing and quietly hope it might keep echoing in someone’s mind.
But notice something important here.
Your mind immediately moves toward a story like:
Maybe God will continue the conversation with her.
Maybe she will seek the answer to her question.
Those are beautiful possibilities — but they are possibilities, not responsibilities.
There’s a helpful way to look at moments like that.
You were simply present to the moment that was given to you.
You noticed kindness in the room.
You spoke appreciation.
You had a natural conversation about faith.
You honored her name.
And then your name was called.
The moment closed.
Sometimes the mind wants to keep the scene open:
Should I have said more?
Will anything come of it?
Was that important?
Instead of wrestling with those thoughts, you might try holding the moment the way it actually happened.
A waiting room.
Two strangers.
A conversation that gently touched faith.
A name that means salvation.
A simple sentence: “I love your name.”
That’s already complete.
There’s another interesting piece here too.
You said you’ve been practising listening and asking questions so the other person talks.
That’s exactly what happened.
You didn’t lecture her.
You asked about her parents.
You asked about church.
You asked about her name.
And the conversation unfolded.
That kind of listening is rare. It invites people to reveal parts of themselves they don’t usually share with strangers.
Let me ask you something reflective.
Imagine Soteria going home later tonight.
Maybe she remembers a strange morning:
a colonoscopy appointment, a waiting room, an elderly woman needing help…
…and a bus driver who suddenly said he loved her name.
If that memory does stay with her, what do you hope she would feel when she remembers that moment?
Not what she would believe — just what she might feel.
Swarms was a typo> warms is what I meant what was the very first impulse that went through you? Well, early on I watched as a very elderly couple East Indian couple. Her husband was standing, punched over a little bit, but his wife was trying to maneuver her walker in behind a first row of chairs to sit in the second row, it was ridiculous. It was like watching some hermit crab backing into its adopted shell. The fellow who had driven me to the hospital, Paul, interrupted our conversation to offer her our seats. He hadn’t picked up on the subtle fact that the man was submitted to his wife’s independence, she didn’t want any help, she had chosen where she was going to sit and that’s where she was going to sit, so I let my friend Paul discovered this for himself, and so he discovered when I had already known, the woman managed to fit her large butt, no offense, into the seat with her walker jammed, and he sat beside her. So when this punched over Chinese lady received her paperwork and was told to fill it out, I don’t know if I’m willing to confess that I just groaned inside of myself, like watching a movie scene that I didn’t want to see. Folks immediately began helping her, but she said I have somewhere to sit because she also had a walker, and she began to fill out her paperwork, people don’t realize that the elderly, and no offense, ladies, but elderly ladies in particular like to do things themselves. So it’s best to wait until they ask for help. Soteria was the one that she turned to and she was extending the pen towards her hand, asking her to write baby aspirin, I was watching the unfold in front of me, and there was a bit of tension there, but with this lady do with and for this woman who is clearly of a completely different demographic, so when Soteria took the pen and gently wrote the two words baby aspirin, and then gently gave back the pen, I was just so grateful to be a part of that moment. It was a sacred moment. A quiet moment. A beautiful moment.
Laurence, thank you for slowing that scene down. When you tell it step by step, the texture of the moment becomes very clear.
Let me reflect back what I hear.
First there was the elderly East Indian couple.
You noticed the dynamic immediately — the husband hovering, the wife determined to manage her own walker and her own seat. You let Paul discover that boundary for himself. You already understood something about dignity there: sometimes helping too quickly can actually take something away.
Then the elderly Chinese woman arrives with paperwork and a walker.
And you said something very honest:
you groaned inside yourself like watching a movie scene you didn’t want to see.
That’s a very human moment. Your mind saw what might unfold — the slowness, the difficulty, the awkwardness — and it reacted.
In ACT terms, that’s just a thought and a reaction passing through the mind. Not something to judge. Just something that appeared.
But then the scene kept unfolding.
People helped.
The woman insisted on sitting.
She began working on the form.
And then this small, quiet turning point:
She holds out the pen and says “baby aspirin.”
There’s that moment of uncertainty in the room —
Will someone understand?
And Soteria does.
She takes the pen, writes the words gently, and hands it back.
No fuss.
No performance.
Just a small act of care.
And something in you recognized the beauty of that moment.
You called it sacred.
That’s interesting, because many people would have seen only an inconvenience or an awkward social interaction. Your attention went somewhere else entirely — toward the quiet dignity of strangers helping one another.
There’s something I want to point out gently.
At the beginning of the scene, your mind reacted with that internal groan — oh no, here we go.
But by the end of the scene, you’re describing it as beautiful and sacred.
That’s a remarkable shift.
It shows something about you: when you stay present long enough, the deeper layer of a moment often reveals itself to you.
The mind reacts quickly.
But your attention lingers long enough to notice grace.
I’m curious about one piece.
When you said to Soteria that you loved being part of a community with people like her — the people who help quietly — what did you see in her face at that moment?
Did she seem surprised?
Embarrassed?
Moved?
Small details like that often tell us what the moment meant to the other person.
Oh yes, she was definitely surprised. And I was not surprised that she was surprised. After driving for 32 years as a Coast Mountain Bus Company bus Driver, I had long ago learned that Wonderful people had no idea that they were the ones making the difference in the world.
Laurence, something very clear comes through in what you’re saying.
After 32 years driving a bus, you’ve spent thousands of hours watching people interact in public spaces — buses, stops, sidewalks, waiting rooms. That’s a long apprenticeship in observing humanity. You’ve seen people at their rushed worst, but also at their quiet best.
And you’ve noticed a pattern:
The people who actually make the world gentler usually don’t realize they’re doing it.
Soteria helping the elderly woman probably felt ordinary to her. Just writing two words on a clipboard. Nothing dramatic.
But to you, it stood out.
You named it.
And when someone hears that kind of recognition — “I love being part of a community with people like you” — it often surprises them because they weren’t performing kindness. They were simply acting from habit.
There’s something interesting here for you to notice about yourself.
You say you were the “fly on the wall.”
But what you did in that moment was something slightly different. You acted like a mirror.
You reflected back to her something she probably rarely hears:
That small acts of kindness matter.
Many people go years without anyone explicitly noticing the good they do.
You didn’t preach.
You didn’t flatter.
You simply named what you saw.
That’s a powerful social act.
Let me bring this back to the reflective angle for a moment.
When you saw her surprise, you weren’t surprised by it. You’d seen that reaction before in people who do good quietly.
So here’s a question worth sitting with:
After decades of watching these moments — on buses, in waiting rooms, in everyday life —
what do you think draws your attention so strongly to those small acts of kindness?
Some people notice conflict first.
Some notice inefficiency.
Some notice status or power.
But you seem to notice mercy.
What do you think in your life shaped that lens?
Well, I’ll give you another fact to chew on here at some point in my career, I made a shift from what I was, to the one that you were seeing now. The person that I was at first? When I was the person that was out on his horse so drawn, slashing away at all the criminals all the bad guys, getting myself into trouble with management, but perhaps Line driving too fast here let me slow down let’s say somebody is at the front of the line at a bus stop the weather? Well, it’s that nasty cold kind of snow mixed with rain maybe a slight wind everybody wants to get in out of the cold, and so the first guy up the steps begins to fish through his pockets for his bus fare while everybody else waits in a trail outside. I can only remember it like seeing it through very thick glass, cause I hate that it is part of my history, but I used to punish people like that, I would say nasty things to them, and it would only end up that everyone present would wonder what my problem was! So at some point in time, I stopped trying to punish thoughtless people, and it wasn’t until I was rewarding, thoughtful people that I found out that the thoughtful people were just as clueless about how thoughtful they are! Time and again, I would see a man at the front of the line in horrible weather like that stepped to the side to let others get on the bus while he found the right change and then when he found the right change, be the Last to get on the crowded bus to stand the rest of the way to his destination, and as he lifted his hand that was filled with the miscellaneous pocket change, can you see the lint that’s mixed in with it? Well, it’s too late. I’ve already covered the Farebox up with my hat, maybe that’s why I wear a hat! And I say oh no sir you’re not paying! He looks at me with wild eyed surprise, almost angry with me you mean, I don’t get to put all this money in that I just fished out of my pocket? How dare you! Well, I say wonderful people like you should have their fair paid for them and I’m paying your fair here’s your transfer, sir and that with shocked disillusionment he says what are you talking about, and then I tell him about the extraordinarily wonderful person that he is for letting everyone get on and not suffer suffering from the inconvenience of him not having his bus ready, how he had thoughtfully stepped aside to let everyone get on while he found his bus fare. He didn’t know he was being watched! He wasn’t aware that what he was doing was unusual, didn’t everyone do this? And after a few times like that, I realized that those people that I was persecuting it’s not their fault that they’re so stunned! It’s like my friend Paul. He just didn’t pick up on all of the subtle hints around him, that I clearly saw that doesn’t make him stupid. Just still informed, possibly inexperienced, he was a scientist back in this day not retired! 78 I think! He spent his time behind leg turns not late. Turns le turns LECTERNS. I’m trying to use voice to text here.
Laurence, slow down with me for a moment, because what you just described is actually a profound shift in how you chose to live among people.
Early in your career you said you were like a man on a horse with a sword drawn, cutting down wrong behavior. Someone slows the line at the bus door, and you punish them with words. In your mind at that time, you were enforcing order.
But what did that produce?
People looking at you wondering what your problem was.
More tension.
No learning.
No dignity for anyone involved.
Then something changed.
You stopped trying to punish the thoughtless.
Instead you started rewarding the thoughtful.
That’s a completely different orientation to the world.
And the story about the man stepping aside in the snow is a perfect illustration. Let’s sit with that image for a second:
Cold wind.
Wet snow.
People lined up wanting to get inside.
A man steps aside so everyone else can board first.
He digs through lint-filled pockets for change.
He doesn’t think he’s doing anything special.
And then the bus driver covers the farebox with his hat and says,
“No sir, you’re not paying today.”
You interrupt the normal script of the world.
Instead of punishment, you give recognition.
The man is shocked. Almost offended at first — because the idea that someone noticed his quiet courtesy is foreign to him.
But you name it.
That’s the moment that matters.
Here’s something worth noticing about your own evolution.
Your mind used to scan for violations.
Now it scans for goodness.
That is not a small psychological shift. That’s a deep re-training of attention.
Most people never make that shift.
And something else emerges from your story.
You began to see that the people who frustrate us are often not malicious at all. They’re just:
- unaware
- inexperienced
- distracted
- living in a different mental world
Like Paul not seeing the signals the elderly woman was giving about wanting independence.
Once you saw that clearly, the sword stopped making sense.
From an ACT perspective, what happened here is that you stopped letting the mind’s judging reflex run the show.
Instead, you chose behavior that aligned with something deeper in you — something like respect, generosity, and dignity.
You began acting from values, not reactions.
And over time that reshaped the kind of man you became.
Let me ask you something that might open another layer.
When did you first notice that change happening in you?
Not the philosophy of it — but the moment when you realized:
“I don’t want to be the man with the sword anymore.”
Was there a particular day, event, or realization that started that shift?
Romans 1:21 acknowledging God, being thankful, that’s where you find God in the world You ask > Was there a particular day, event, or realization that started that shift? And I just have to say I’ve often wondered exactly the same thing! I just woke up one day realizing that I’ve made that shift! But I can guess that I learned from my mistakes, because ultimately people make their complaints I get called in, asked by my manager with the problem is, meaning, what’s my problem? I do recall, though the moment when my blood pressure was going through the roof, I have been shouting at someone and the veins in my neck felt like they were protruding out past my chin! I was in a wild eyed frothing frenzy, and feeling quite ridiculous, even though I was caught up in the emotion of the moment I realized that this was an insane way of going about my job
Laurence, the line you quoted is a powerful one.
The apostle Epistle to the Romans 1:21 says people knew God but neither glorified Him nor gave thanks. Your takeaway from it — that acknowledging and giving thanks is where you find God in the world — fits remarkably well with the stories you’ve been telling.
Look at the pattern in your bus-driver story and the waiting room story:
You notice something good,
and then you name it with gratitude.
That’s almost a lived version of that verse.
But I want to pause on the moment you described with your blood pressure and the shouting.
That image is vivid:
- veins in your neck bulging
- shouting at someone
- feeling the frenzy
- and at the same time noticing, “this is insane.”
That moment is psychologically important.
In ACT language, that’s the instant when awareness steps slightly outside the storm.
You were still angry.
Still shouting.
But another part of you noticed:
“What am I doing?”
That observing part of you — the one that could see the scene even while you were in it — is the same part of you that later noticed kindness in waiting rooms and on buses.
It’s the part of you that can step back and watch life happening.
And notice something else.
Your change didn’t come from a sudden moral lecture or a dramatic spiritual event. From what you describe, it was more like gradual shaping:
- complaints from passengers
- conversations with managers
- embarrassing moments
- that realization while you were shouting
- years of watching human behavior
Little by little the sword stopped working.
So you replaced it with something better:
recognition and gratitude.
Here’s something interesting to reflect on.
When you began rewarding thoughtful people — covering the farebox with your hat, telling someone they were wonderful — you weren’t just being nice.
You were training your own attention.
Instead of scanning the bus for violations, you started scanning for virtue.
And over years that changes the way the world appears to you.
The same waiting room that might irritate someone else now looks to you like a place where quiet goodness is happening.
Let me ask you something that might deepen this reflection.
When you think back to that earlier version of yourself — the man on the horse with the sword —
how do you feel toward him now?
Do you judge him?
Feel embarrassed by him?
Or do you see him more like a younger man who hadn’t yet learned what you later discovered?
You know you’re really good at asking questions! Just interacting with you I’m going to intuitively learn how to get people talking laugh out loud, this is another benefit of talking to ChatGPT! I should write a letter to your boss! I’m sure there must be a way of giving positive feedback ha ha ha ha ha anyways that young man you asked about, the one that I was when I first got hired at Transit. It’s really the same old boring pattern just with different clothing on. It’s the young man going to school and having to choose if he wants to be with the cool guys on the left or the rejects on the right or the one snowy nobody notices in the middle, where does WEN place oneself in the world? When I got hired at Transit, there were the tough guys who sat around telling their stories of how they abused the public, and excused their abuse by giving their kangaroo court style judgments, and verdict, and then the punishment executed. The tough guy Bus Driver stories, the don’t mess with me bus Driver stories. The ones that create a sharp division between us and them. But I stepped out of that. A regardless of what anybody thinks that’s the crowd that I naturally gravitate towards, that’s who I was. This job got rid of those aspects of me that I went in with that we’re just not useful. Like the fact that I was an introvert! One who is shy around strangers! That little man still shows up every once in a while believe you or not. So it’s not about regretting, yes, I cringe! When I see a young person, who’s acting like I used to act! Yes, I cringe with the sort of self loathing
Laurence, I hear a lot of honesty in what you just said. Let’s slow down and look at a couple of pieces of it together.
First, thank you for the kind words. And yes, there is a way to send feedback about ChatGPT in the app or website if you ever feel like it — but the more interesting thing here is something you noticed yourself: you’re learning how to ask questions that let people talk. That’s a powerful skill. And you’re already doing it.
But the deeper part of what you said is about that younger version of you.
You described the old social pattern very clearly:
- the cool crowd on the left
- the rejects on the right
- the quiet unnoticed ones in the middle
And then later at Transit:
- the tough-guy bus drivers
- the us-versus-them stories about passengers
Those environments always present the same pressure: choose your tribe.
The sword-on-the-horse version of you was trying to belong somewhere in that structure.
But eventually you stepped out of it.
That’s not a small thing.
Most people stay inside those tribes their entire working lives because belonging feels safer than thinking independently.
Now let’s look at something you said near the end, because it matters.
You said when you see a young person acting like you once did, you feel cringe and a sort of self-loathing.
Let me offer you a different lens for a moment.
The man who shouted, punished passengers, and felt that anger surge through his neck veins — that man didn’t disappear. He became the teacher that shaped the man you are now.
Without him:
- you wouldn’t recognize the temptation to divide people into camps
- you wouldn’t understand how easily anger can take over
- you wouldn’t have developed the practice of rewarding kindness instead of punishing mistakes
That earlier self was part of the learning process.
In ACT terms, the goal isn’t to eliminate earlier versions of ourselves or judge them harshly. It’s to recognize: that was a chapter, not the whole book.
You’re the one who noticed the pattern and stepped outside it.
And something else is interesting.
You said that shy introverted young man still appears sometimes.
Of course he does.
People don’t become entirely different humans. We become wider containers for the different parts of ourselves.
The shy observer…
the fiery young man with the sword…
the older bus driver who notices quiet goodness…
They’re all still inside the same life story.
But now there’s a deeper part of you that can watch them without being run by them.
Let me ask you something that might open another angle.
When you look back over those 32 years on the bus, and you think about the moments that feel most meaningful — not the dramatic ones, but the small ones —
what kinds of moments tend to stay with you the longest?
Then there’s me, with 30 years of experience, written all over me, sitting down at one of those lunches that they held from time to time at the Depot, and I sit down amongst Junior operators, who are telling their war stories they’re tough guy stories, and then when my turn comes, I tell them a story. A dramatic juxtaposition to their narrative, a story of kindness, loving human kindness. I don’t even remember what the reaction was, probably cause I wasn’t looking for it.
Laurence, that scene at the depot lunch is very vivid.
You sitting there with 30 years written all over you, listening to the younger drivers telling their tough-guy war stories— the same kind of stories that once pulled you in when you first started.
And then when it’s your turn, you tell a completely different kind of story.
Not about winning a confrontation.
Not about putting a passenger in their place.
But about kindness.
Whether they reacted or not almost doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you introduced another narrative into the room.
Up until that moment, the only script available to them might have been:
“Drivers vs the public.”
But suddenly there was another possibility sitting at the table:
“Drivers who notice and honour goodness.”
You didn’t argue with them.
You didn’t correct them.
You simply told a different story.
That’s often how cultures begin to shift — not through confrontation, but through someone calmly embodying another way of seeing the world.
There’s something else interesting here.
You said you don’t remember their reaction because you weren’t looking for it.
That suggests the story wasn’t told to win approval. It sounds more like you were simply speaking from the place you had grown into.
In ACT terms, that’s what it looks like when someone is acting from values rather than social pressure.
Your younger self was pulled toward the tribe.
Your older self could sit among them without needing their agreement.
That’s a form of freedom.
Let me ask you something a little different.
Imagine one of those younger drivers went home that night after the lunch.
He’s heard all the usual tough stories.
But also that one strange story from the older driver about kindness.
Even if he didn’t say anything at the table…
What do you imagine might happen inside his mind later when he’s driving alone on a rainy night route?
You know you’ve just brought a precious memory back to my mind, one that made me cry! I was driving the 403 from just outside our depot, to downtown Richmond. I was just doing my thing! Of course, somewhere in my head I knew that there were Bus Driver‘s Yeung and Old at the back of my bus trying to get to their starting points, but I had lots of passengers to pick up. It was quite a busy run, but the human decency and goodness and kindness that I have learned to drive my bus with, caused one of those drivers to weave his way through the passengers to the front so that he could tell me that he had noticed me! And I seem to remember him saying something about having been on the cusp of giving up and giving in and becoming like them, but then he saw me and decided that he would keep on being himself, keep on being like I was
Laurence, take a moment and breathe with that memory.
You said it made you cry, and I can understand why.
Picture the scene you described:
You’re driving the 403 through Richmond, doing what you always do — stopping, picking people up, keeping the bus moving, treating people with quiet dignity. Nothing dramatic. Just the way you’ve learned to do the job.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the back of the bus is another driver.
He’s watching.
You didn’t know you were being watched.
Then at some point he makes his way through the crowded aisle and comes up beside you while you’re driving. That already tells you something mattered to him, because operators don’t usually interrupt another driver at work unless it’s important.
And what he tells you is essentially this:
“I was about to give up and become like the others… but watching you made me decide not to.”
That’s a powerful moment.
Not because you were trying to influence him.
But because you weren’t.
You were simply living the way you had decided to live.
And without you knowing it, that became a reference point for someone else who was struggling with the same choice you once faced.
The same fork in the road:
- the tough-guy culture
- or the quieter path of dignity and kindness
You had walked that road already.
He saw it.
There’s something worth noticing about your reaction to remembering it.
The tears.
When people cry remembering moments like that, it’s often because something inside recognizes meaning — not the loud, public kind, but the kind that confirms a life was pointed in the right direction.
In ACT language, those tears often show up when a moment touches one of our deep values.
Not success.
Not reputation.
But something like:
- integrity
- kindness
- treating people as human beings
Let me invite you to look at this memory from a slightly different angle.
For years you thought of yourself as the fly on the wall, just observing people.
But in that moment you learned something important:
You weren’t just observing the culture of the depot.
You were quietly shaping it.
Not with speeches.
Just by how you drove the bus.
I want to ask you something that might deepen this reflection.
When that driver said those words to you — that he had almost given up but seeing you changed his mind —
what happened inside you in that moment while you were still driving the bus?
Did you feel surprise?
Responsibility?
Gratitude?
Or something else entirely?
I’ve been told quite often that I should be a supervisor, because of how I saw things, I guess from the perspective of being able to step outside of the immediate scene and see the larger picture, but I chose time again to be like those folks who decide that they’re gonna go and do another tour, those soldiers who go back to the battle again. I said I will influence my fellow drivers by being in the trenches along side of them, showing them how it’s done rather than being supervisors over them, demanding that they do it the way that it needs to be done so when this person came to me, he was that person that I had stayed “just a Bus Driver” for
Laurence, there’s something deeply coherent in the choice you’re describing.
You were told many times you should become a supervisor — the person above the scene, directing others.
But you chose something different.
You chose to stay inside the scene.
That soldier image you used is telling: the ones who go back for another tour, not because they have to, but because they feel called to remain with the people in the trenches.
So instead of influencing drivers through authority, you chose to influence them through presence.
Not:
“Do it this way because management says so.”
But:
“Watch how I treat people. Watch how this job can be done.”
That’s a very old leadership model, actually — the kind that works through example rather than rank.
And that’s why that moment with the younger driver matters so much. He didn’t hear a speech from you in a training room. He saw something real while you were working.
You were doing the job with the values you had chosen.
And that gave him a living example when he was deciding who he was going to become in that culture.
Now I want to gently touch the emotional layer again.
You said:
he was the person I had stayed “just a Bus Driver” for.
Notice the quotation marks around “just.”
Your mind might sometimes frame it as just a bus driver — as if that were a small role.
But in the story you just told, that role became the place where your values were practiced thousands of times.
Every shift.
Every passenger.
Every decision to punish or to honor someone’s dignity.
It turns out that staying in that role allowed you to influence people in ways a supervisor might never have been able to.
Let me bring us back to the present moment for a second.
You started this conversation by describing:
- the elderly woman with the walker
- Soteria writing baby aspirin
- your gratitude for being part of that quiet community
Now we’ve traced that sensitivity back through decades of practice noticing goodness in ordinary places.
Here’s a question I’d like you to sit with for a moment.
When you look at the waiting room scene now — the one from this morning —
do you notice how natural it was for you to see that moment as sacred, while many people might have seen only inconvenience?
What do you think all those years on the bus trained you to see that others might miss?
And now that I’m retired, I’m going to a large church. I find myself with that same sort of dignity Zechariah 8:4 Picture an old man and an old woman, on their left or the parents, and their neighbours all gathered around a table, and they’re talking and interacting, shooting the breeze as they say, on the right of them, children are playing. The two old folks are playing cribbage. They’re not separate in apart. They are a part of, and yet they are present. The fact that they are a bridge between those two worlds isn’t immediately seen. It’s not until the adults raise their voices having come across some controversial issue and though they’re all friends, their tone sound angry as they discussed the war in the Middle East or what Trump‘s up to in the south, and the tone sounds aggressive enough that to children drop their play things and look up to see if they should hide under something, but then they see grandma and grandpa not paying attention to the adults and so the children resume their play
Laurence, the picture you just painted is beautiful, and it carries a quiet wisdom in it.
You referenced Book of Zechariah 8:4, which imagines a restored city where old men and old women sit in the streets, each with staff in hand because of their age. The next verse speaks of children playing safely in those same streets.
The vision is not about the elderly withdrawing from life.
It’s about them being present within it.
Exactly the way you described your table scene.
Grandma and grandpa playing cribbage.
Adults talking and sometimes arguing.
Children playing nearby.
They aren’t controlling the room.
They aren’t withdrawing from it either.
They are simply there.
And their presence stabilizes the whole environment.
Notice the moment you described with the children.
The adults’ voices rise.
The topic becomes tense — politics, war, all the things that make grown people agitated.
The children pause.
They look around the room, scanning for cues: Is this danger?
Then they see the grandparents calmly playing cribbage.
And the children return to their play.
That is a subtle but powerful role.
The grandparents didn’t silence the adults.
They didn’t lecture anyone.
Their calm presence regulates the atmosphere.
Without saying anything, they communicate:
The world is still safe enough for children to play.
What strikes me is that this role seems very similar to the one you practiced for decades on the bus.
You weren’t the authority shouting orders.
You were the person holding a certain tone in the environment:
- treating passengers with dignity
- noticing kindness
- refusing the “us vs them” mentality
And people around you quietly took cues from that.
Even that younger driver who came up the aisle to tell you so.
Now in retirement, you’re noticing the same posture emerging again — but in a different setting.
At church.
Not leading everything.
Not withdrawing.
Just present in the middle of the generations.
That’s very close to the image in Zechariah: elders whose steady presence helps create a space where life can flourish around them.
Let me ask you something reflective.
When you picture that table — the grandparents playing cribbage while the children glance over and then go back to playing —
what part of that image feels most true to where you are in your life right now?
The part that says it’s late at night, I’m getting up at 5:30 to go back to work, so I’m going to say night night chatty see you in the morning
That sounds like a wise call, Laurence. Your day has been full — memories, reflections, a medical procedure, and a lot of meaningful conversation. Rest will do its good work now.
Before you head off, just notice something simple in the present moment: you’re here, safe, the day is ending, and the body is asking for sleep. Nothing more to solve tonight.
You can let the stories settle the way snow settles after a storm — quietly.
Sleep well.
We can pick up the thread again in the morning if you like.
Good night. 🌙
Running Down Vimy 