I should have gotten up a few minutes earlier. I’m schlepping my bag, and a giant box of decorations and cookies down the stairs. The frost on my windshield is going to take a few minutes to scrape, and I still need to stop and pick-up some extra-snacks for the classroom party. I am crawling to the finish line. I am teacher tired.

6:15 a.m. at Wawa. The place is hectic. The aisles are bustling with nurses, construction crews and delivery drivers. We give each other the nod of the early morning workforce. It’s my turn in line, and I drop an armful of chips, dips, and bags of M&M’s and Sour Patch Kids on the counter. I’m fumbling for my wallet, while holding 24 ounces of hazelnut happiness in my left hand. The sales associate is bagging up my goods. I hand him my debit card, and he passes it right back to me. He tells me my items have been paid for. He casually points to the gentleman ahead of me, who is just grabbing his bags.

I notice this man is wearing a weathered jean jacket emblazoned with “Semper Fi.” His brown hair is cut high and tight. “Semper Fi.” I jog my memory for the meaning. “Always faithful” is what comes to mind. He is a Marine.

I very quietly say, “Excuse me?”

He looks up, and his smile starts with his eyes. I try to thank him. I want him to know how kind his gesture is. I am unable to find my words though. He breaks the silence, looks at me, and rather announces to the store,

“Everywhere I go, people do things for me. They pick up my check in restaurants. They buy me a coffee. They thank me for their freedom. This morning, I looked behind me in line, and I saw your badge. It occurred to me that maybe you could use a little sunshine in your morning. You are a teacher. You are a hero. To you I say, “Semper Fi.”

He raises his Wawa coffee cup in a half-toast/half-salute, and he walks out the door. The line is silent. I am ugly crying right here in the middle of Wawa at 6:22 a.m. A customer passes me a handful of rough, brown napkins. I pull myself together, smiling through the tears.