The Stitch of Fabric
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”
—Fred Rogers
The summer of 2012, we packed up our traveling circus—five children, too much luggage, and my long-faded high school French—and set our sights on Disneyland Paris.
Our crew: my stepdaughter, 11; my son, 6; my daughters, 5, 3, and a baby just 8 months old. Our sanity: questionable at best, but we were determined to have a fun time. The park was smaller than Orlando’s, but somehow the promise of a new adventure and a French Captain Jack Sparrow made up for the difference.
We had been in Europe just over a year, still catching every bug that crossed our path. On this trip, my 3-year-old fell victim to a stomach virus—one so violent that “painted the room” is the most polite way I can put it, but “painted the room with stench and regret,” is probably more accurate. We had already done the park (and had a moment with French Captain Jack Sparrow worthy of a romance novel cover, but G rated), so when the floodgates of fluid nightmares opened, we decided it best that we quarantined. My daughter, the baby, and I stayed back at the hotel, while my husband set out with the other three for some sightseeing and much coveted fresh air.
They decided to first head for the Eiffel Tower and from there just enjoy the new scenery. After a cab ride and dashing into the subway station, they got there just as the train slid into place.
My husband got the kids safely on board, turned for just a second and…
The. Doors. Closed.
Children inside.
Father outside.
Panic crept in swiftly and without regard.
At this point, I imagine my stepdaughter’s mind flashed forward to raising her siblings in a cardboard box somewhere along the Seine (and if anyone could do it—she could!). In just a split second, a pair of metal doors sealed her fate of teenage parenthood. But then—out of nowhere—he appeared.
A man. Weathered clothes. Worn face. Seemingly no home to speak of. A man who didn’t understand my husband’s words, but was fluent in immediate need.
Without a flicker of hesitation, he forced his fingers through the closed doors just enough to pry them open a tiny bit to wedge himself between them, pushing them open while the train started creeping forward. He motioned for my husband and pulled him safely inside and then—just as quickly—he vanished into the blur of the station, swallowed by the noise and movement as if he had never been there at all.
I, of course was blissfully unaware of the ensuing chaos in my Petri dish of a room, until the hotel door swung open and the kids spilled in, breathless and glowing with the kind of wild energy only near-misses seem to spark.
“Mama! Daddy almost lost us on the train!” they cried, voices tumbling over one another in the retelling, each one trying to be the first to break the news.
Hearing it blurted out like that, my reaction admittedly wasn’t polished or patient. It shot straight out of me, sharp and unfiltered, like a thousand razor blades on fire:
“You did WHAT?!”
In my seasoned age now, I realize that any reaction out of emotion probably isn’t the right one, but alas, here we are. I was all of the emotions all at once and directed them straight at my husband.
But later—after the rush had drained away and the room was quiet again—my mind kept drifting back.
Not to the doors. Not to the fear. Not to the spots of illness I hadn’t yet found on the floor.
But to the man.
The stranger who stepped into our moment of panic without hesitation.
The one who had nothing to gain and yet gave something so large it can’t be measured.
Was he simply passing by? Or had he been placed there—like a stitch in the unseen fabric that holds the world together?
Either way, I know he was a miracle.
The news will always hand us a thousand reasons to believe the worst in the world and humanity, and yet, this man proved something different: that good still exists in the unlikeliest places. That it hides in subway stations and worn hands. That sometimes help comes from those the world overlooks. And sometimes the miracle isn’t the act itself, but rather the realization that good is still out there in abundance.
That day, he didn’t just save my kids. He saved me from the memory of losing them. He reminded me that the helpers Mr. Rogers spoke of are still out there—quietly, instinctively showing up for strangers simply because they are fluent in need.
Since then, I’ve tried to look for them everywhere.
And they are everywhere.
After earthquakes in Japan—elderly neighbors sweeping debris from someone else’s doorstep before their own.
After hurricanes—people wading through floodwaters with supplies for the stranded or using their own helicopters to rescue survivors deemed unreachable.
In daily mishaps and private heartbreaks—friends, coworkers, or complete strangers quietly stepping in to shoulder the weight.
No one makes them. No one pays them.
They simply choose to and they do it without the expectation of gratitude.
And maybe that’s the lesson: the helpers are proof that goodness still hums beneath the noise we are endlessly inundated with. That light still finds its way in—if we’re willing to see it. That even in the breathless space between fear and rescue, there are people who will throw themselves into someone else’s closed doors—simply because they want to.
Because sometimes the difference between fear and safety isn’t luck at all—it’s the quiet kindness of a stranger who refuses to look away, who decides to make an impact no matter the size.
And maybe, if we all leaned into that goodness just a little more, we could light sparks bright enough to be the rescue someone else is praying for and encourage others to do the same.
After all, the world doesn’t change when we wait for the helpers—it changes when we decide to be one.
With Helping Hands and Gratitude,
Emily
Ash and Bloom
