Bedtime. Take out the compost, or leave it for morning? I ran out to the bin with my bucket, stopped for a night shot of Mrs. Wing’s daffodils, and came back inside.

In the downstairs lobby I gave a courteous nod to a delivery driver in uniform examining a little bubble-wrappy package. He gave a courteous nod back, and punched the elevator button without knowing that our venerable elevator was not working. He had quite a wait ahead of him before Maintenance gets the parts they need and a tech to come fix it.

Decision time: Tell him, or not? When I interfere in other people’s lives by offering unsolicited good-natured commiseration, or factoids about stuff that they can figure out on their own, it is surprising how many can be annoyed by it. (Once I was visiting Boston, and a departing shopper became quite surly when I said “Sir, whoa — your wallet is still here on the counter.”)

Well, what’s to lose? I retraced my steps and went back to talk to the driver. “Out of order,” I sympathized.

But at least with that small overture, he somehow felt encouraged to show me the address label on the package. Let’s call it Apartment 800. “Ziss name for namber eight zeera zeera — is in this building?”

“Sure. I’ll show you. Stairs are right here. Ili ya samá voz’mú. Or I’ll take it myself.”

Double take. “Vy sámi? You will???”

Hey now. He surrendered the package with a smile (“And how did this happen? You are not a Slav!”) and we chatted up a storm. He whipped out his phone to show me his little village on Google maps. He talked about his Ukrainian relatives and his Russian relatives. They had of course a compelling story which does not belong here, so I expressed fragile best wishes for everybody’s safety. He expressed fragile best wishes that some day I can travel there and see the place for myself. I made a point of expressing admiration for that village’s centuries of expertise with artisanal apple tree husbandry and church architecture, and for one priest there doing wonderful charitable work. The driver just lit up. “Yes! I know him!!”

Then he headed out to his truck while we hollered blessings back and forth.

Dropping off the package upstairs, I felt so happy. I asked God to place me in more good connection chances like that one. It took all of seven minutes of time, between a truck and a compost bin. But in a troubling world it felt like a shining wee gossamer strand of peace thrown across a very wide bridge.