The only reason I read the story at all was because it mentioned a Trader Joe's in Los Angeles. It would not be an exaggeration to say we shopped at one in that area twice a week for twelve years. There were, I confess, times I went back on the same day. 

A hostage event took place last month in which Gene Atkins crashed his car in front of the store, was shot by the police chasing him, and scrambled inside. One of the people trapped, MaryLinda Moss, engaged with him. She was calm, present, and empathetic. Early in their conversation she put her hand on Gene's heart. 

"There's always hope. I know you have a good heart, and you don't want to hurt anybody."

What?! As someone who regularly slathers ill intent on people I actually adore, I am gobsmacked. This woman was able to take off not only her insulin pump as she tied a tourniquet on his bleeding arm, she shed her judgments. MaryLinda was so focused on listening to the gunman she wrote to her husband, who was rabid to find out if she was safe, to stop texting her. 

I would not have liked being her husband. 

In the tense hours of standoff, MaryLinda stayed focused on making sure that Atkins felt heard. When the SWAT team sped things up, she slowed the pace. As he was trying to figure out how to surrender without getting killed she took his face in her hands.

"Do you trust me?"

After three hours when she was deftly walking the gunman toward the door, and I read this twice to be sure, she positioned herself between him and the sharpshooter dressed in black. Even in his rampage, she protected him. 

There will be no life threatening exchanges at my house this month. No one will be perched on the precipice of a felony, or mortal sacrifice. Yet there are moments that happen as frequently as twice a week, or even in the same day when I could choose empathy. Place my hand on my husband's heart.