Filling the tank is low on my list of preferred activities. Especially in winter, standing with fumes in my face and the numbers ka-chinking past like a slot machine I just want it to be over. But the little Empty light on my dashboard makes me nervous, given our history of mishaps, so I stopped this morning for gas. I took a twenty and a single into the convenience store, and noticed that there was no door. I mean the frame was there, but instead of glass there was cardboard. It was nineteen degrees out. 

I handed the man behind the counter my cash. 

"It's pretty cold. Your door broke?" I asked, ignoring the rule about minimal conversation in a place designed for hasty exchanges. 

"Someone smashed it this morning. Took cigarettes." He sighed heavily. Surely the cost would come out of his meager paycheck.

"I am so sorry. That is really awful," I shook my head, and walked back past the cardboard.

I poked the nozzle into my tank and started the flow. I shrugged at his misfortune. Surely it would not be a fast fix to replace the glass. The pump kept going past twenty one dollars, and I abruptly stopped it just shy of twenty two. After rummaging in my pocket for another buck I walked back inside. Past the cardboard. 

"Here is another dollar...." I offered. 

He beat me to the punch and handed me a quarter. 

"You gave me twenty two." His voice left no room for argument. 

"Thank you," I mumbled as I slipped the coin into my pants. Walking outside, past the cardboard, I wondered. Was a moment of empathy offered by a stranger on a freezing morning worth more to this man than a dollar in the register? 

I can offer compassion every single day. To people I know, to others whose names I will never speak. What storehouse of wealth do I hold as I stumble through errands, and interactions, and my ordinary day? I could be like those people who walk around handing out hundred dollar bills. But instead of paper, my currency would be kindness.