The man and I walked out of the UPS store at the same time and headed the exact same direction. After a short conversation, we entered our trucks that were parked facing each other. I had one more thing to say so I got out and walked the short distance to the driver-side door. He opened it a bit.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to pray for your brother. What is his name?” He seemed surprised.

The short conversation that we had on the way out served as a stark reminder that we never know what others are experiencing in their lives, and it would serve us well to understand that at all times.

I had held the door for him as he walked behind me as we exited the doorway of the store. He had said, “This is my tenth trip here in a week to get a notary. Don’t let your family members die.”

He seemed old enough to have aged parents, but too young to have a sibling die. I said, “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you’re okay. Was it expected?”

“No. It was my brother. He had made some enemies and they did him in.” He spoke with clarity and stoically. Facts were facts.

“Damn, I’m sorry,” I replied instinctively. His facial expression changed a bit, perhaps pleasantly surprised that a stranger might care despite the stated facts. “I hope you find peace.”

“Thank you,” he replied as he stuck out his hand. “My name is Joe.“ We shook hands.

From there, we went to our trucks.

When I shared that I wanted to pray for his brother, he replied, “But my brother is dead…” with a hint of “didn’t you hear what I said?” expressed by his countenance.

“Yes, but we pray for the dead, too,” I replied.

He thanked me and closed his door, and I returned to my truck.

I know nothing more about him than what I shared above. In life, we know even less than that about the people we encounter, hold the door for, sigh in frustration at, wave absent mindedly at as they drive by, or curse at on the freeway. It has been said by people wiser than me, expressed by poets, included in song lyrics and shared via inspirational speeches for eons: We don’t know the burdens that others carry. Likewise, they do not know about the crosses we carry.

Just over 50 years ago, I pecked an essay on my sister’s Smith-Corona portable typewriter. I wonder by keystroke what the difference would be between the image we see of a person and the actual story of the person behind the image.

It would serve us well to remember the shared ignorance we have of others and they have of us.