Where Love Heals

All week, I have been waking up with a peaceful heart. The kind of quiet happiness
that doesn’t ask for attention— it just exists.

This morning, I ran through the cold, breath visible in the air, lungs burning, but alive. I worked on my paper, met a friend for lunch, laughed in the way you do when life feels… easy. It was a good day. The kind you don’t question. Then I walked back to my car— parked in a gravel lot in East Nashville—
sun still warm on my face, a smile still lingering— until I saw it. A flat tire.

Not low. Not fixable. Flat as a pancake. So I called AAA. Expired. Of course it was. “An hour and a half… maybe two,” the woman said. So I waited. Seat warmer on. Music up. Scrolling through distractions while time stretched longer than I wanted it to.

Twenty minutes in—a knock. Sharp. Unexpected. A man at my window. Normal looking. Too normal. My body didn’t care. It remembered something my mind tries to forget. My heart started racing. My chest tightened. My voice disappeared. “May I help you?” I asked—barely.

“It looks like you’re the one who needs help,” he said, pointing to my tire. My tire. I had forgotten about the tire because my body had already gone somewhere else.

Somewhere years back— to a night in April that never really left me. Leather seats. The smell.
Strangers who looked harmless. The drink. The dizziness. The knife. God… the knife. “If you don’t shut your crying ass up, I will cut you.” And suddenly, I wasn’t in a parking lot anymore. I was there.

Frozen.
Small.
Terrified.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Help is on the way.” He lingered.

I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t trust.

Eventually, he left. And I sat there— still. Trying to convince my body that I was safe.

I called Kelli. Left a message. Turned on music. Uptown Funk starting playing loud on my speakers. Tried to dance in my seat— to shake the fear out of my bones. Then he came back. No knock this time. Just standing in front of my car, holding a can of Fix-a-Flat. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “If this were my wife or daughter,” he said, “I’d hope someone would help them.” And something inside me paused.

Right there— between fear and trust.

I made a choice.

A small one. A terrifying one.

I stepped out of the car. Keys in hand. Heart still racing. But I stayed.

His name was Jason. Just a man who had gone to lunch with friends. Just a man who saw someone struggling and decided to help. He fixed my tire like it was nothing. Like kindness was easy. When it was done, I offered him money. He refused. I insisted.

I ran to an ATM—and when I came back, he was gone. But what he left behind… was something much bigger than a fixed tire. He gave me something I didn’t realize I had been missing for far too long. A small piece of trust. A reminder that not everyone is a monster. That the world is still filled with quiet, ordinary goodness. That healing doesn’t always come from grand moments—sometimes
it shows up in a gravel parking lot on an ordinary afternoon in the form of a stranger who chooses kindness.

Your actions matter. More than you will ever know. A smile. A door held open. A simple act of care.

They find their way into the empty spaces inside someone else.

And sometimes— they stay there.

Love doesn’t always arrive the way we expect it to.

Sometimes it looks like safety. Sometimes it feels like courage.

Sometimes… it looks like a man named Jason who fixes your tire and quietly helps you believe again.

Let it in.

JMS