I was waiting in a bank queue this week. Not that many of us frequent banks these days; which in turn is reflected in the number of tellers banks employ. But that day we all seemed to turn up.

The bank was crowded, the queue long, and everyone was wearing a patient, though weary, face. All due no doubt to the pre-Christmas and end-of-year dishevelment that descends at this time.

My bank, as banks now do, had a security guard inside, who gave us all an assessing look as we entered. But he also greeted people by name. Particularly older people. And a few others who looked bedraggled and weighed down by life. The security guard would chat to them, be kind, and smile. Which was very pleasant to overhear as the queue slowly inched forward.

It struck me that the guard was the only paid person in that bank who had the time to do that. And he was probably the poorest paid. Yet he gave something to the atmosphere of that crowded bank and pressured staff that was beyond price. He humanied the place, creating a sense of neighbourliness, and even belonging.

I remember the time, some 15 years back, when I lived in Auckland hospital. I was there for months, recovering. Hospitals, like any place, have their rhythms. People coming and going, urgency events, OBS and bloods through the night, ward rounds, and orderlies wheeling people in and out. The staff are busy, some very busy, and not many stop just to say hello.

If you are there long enough you also get a sense of who is creating the ethos and environment that makes this ward a good one to work in, be in, or not.

Early in the morning, when it was just light outside, the cleaners came through. There were few other staff around at that time; the night nurses probably getting ready for their handover. The cleaners were usually Pasifika, like my bank’s security guard, and always women.

The cleaners and I would exchange smiles and, when I could, some chat. Occasionally, unlike other staff, they said they would pray for me. I valued that goodwill.

No doubt they had lots of floors to clean, but they always seemed to find time to say hello. Which made me feel like a human being rather than a patient.

I thought of them like a morning prayer said and done before the busyness of the day began, creating an ethos and environment for the day’s goodness to unfold.

I value the people, and their little actions of goodness, that make us feel human, and feel part of the human community.

Today I drove past our local embassy. I don’t know which country it is an embassy of but it is surrounded by a high wall, razor wire, and cameras galore. I have always thought its perimeter is a symbol of what community is not - self-protection, exclusive zones, and fear. I am glad no one else in the neighbourhood has copied their architecture and security arrangements.

There is another thing about our neighbourhood that is different, though not unusual in Aotearoa. People put out things on their berm (the grass verge in front of their house) that they want to give away. Things that are 'pre-loved' but not rubbish. Things they hope others will find a use for. It is about sharing and redistributing.

Well, today as I drove past the embassy there was a baby's bath on their berm. How about that?! Seemingly there is a child who lives in there. And seemingly there are parents in there. And seemingly they want to give away what they no longer need. And hey, maybe they don’t particularly like the razor-wire wall either!!

I like people who give what they can, who say hello to strangers, and try to make a difference.

Glynn

This photo is of a US National Park Service employee stopping to say hello to a dog at a Pride March in Utah. This was the best photo Wikimedia Commons had of someone saying 'Hello'. And, yes, the dog does look like the same breed as Finn.