I had set out early to enjoy a peaceful morning at the farmers’ market. After walking through stalls of fresh produce, greeting the vendors I’ve come to know, and inhaling the scent of just-picked vegetables and sweet berries, I loaded the car and began the drive home. The sun was climbing steadily, the day promising to be hot.
I realized I was low on fuel, so I pulled off to the roadside at a Shell station I often stop by. But when I drove in, my heart sank — there was no gas. Not a drop of regular unleaded. I double-checked the pumps, hoping it was some weird glitch. But no — the station was out.
My head spun with frustration. I thought: “Great, so now what?” I had to push on. I continued driving, hoping another station was just a short distance ahead. But as fate would have it, I ran out of gas two miles later. Yes — I admit, I should have fueled up sooner. But hindsight is always clearer.
My daughter, Myla, began crying in the backseat. It was already sweltering outside; the car felt like an oven. I had no other choice but to call a tow service to bring fuel to me. But when I asked for help, the response was frustrating: they wouldn’t be there for at least an hour.
By then, the heat had me frantic. There I was, stuck in a car, sweating, trying to soothe a crying child while wondering how long we’d survive this. Then a thought struck me — maybe I could find someone local to help, or at least a place to wait. I decided to call the police station and ask if an officer could let me sit in their car (with air conditioning) until assistance arrived.
Moments later, Officer Larison from Kalamazoo Public Safety pulled up. She opened her car door, flashing a reassuring smile.
“Come on in,” she said, and without hesitation ushered me and Myla in. The cold air hit me like relief. She told me to cancel the tow and promised she’d help bring gas herself.
I asked if she wanted to hold Myla while we waited — she agreed with such delight. I’d never seen Myla smile so wide or giggle so much. That simple interaction lightened the tension in me. We chatted lightly while waiting: about the weather, the market, what our day had been like. It felt human, warm, and real. I felt seen, heard.
Moments later, Officer Larison flagged down another on-duty officer, asking her to bring a gas can. She didn’t need to do that, but she insisted. She followed me afterward to the station to make sure I made it safely. As I filled up the gas tank (finally), she stayed just close enough, making sure I had no further trouble.
I drove off with a full tank, Myla happily babbling about strawberries she spotted earlier at the market, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of gratitude. The weight of that morning had shifted dramatically, from panic to relief, from frustration to wonder.
What This Moment Taught Me
I’ve heard many stories and seen many headlines about police misdeeds — about misconduct that rightfully demands accountability. But what we often overlook is that those in uniform are also people: mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, people with compassionate hearts just like us.
That morning, Officer Larison didn’t just do her job. She stepped in as a helper, a protector, a human being trying to make someone else’s day better. In that moment, she reminded me — and reminded myself — that we should never let the few negative stories we hear define the many who serve with honor.
There are bad actors in every profession, sure. But let those not overshadow the many quiet, good deeds that go unreported. That’s why people like Larison matter.
So now, whenever I hear a siren or see a patrol car, I try to remember this morning’s story. I hope this memory helps the next time we feel tension or fear. Maybe it encourages us to pause—and perhaps recognize that in that uniform is someone who, in a moment of crisis, could act with unexpected kindness.