By the end of the day, I was holding the hand of a woman sitting in a wheelchair, inside a house that smelled of cat urine and was covered in cat feces that was piled behind chairs, smeared on bedsheets, and crusted into the carpet.
And if not for a few unrelated events from the morning, I might have viewed that moment differently. Because all day, one question kept surfacing: Who deserves to be treated like royalty?
The first time that question appeared, it came during a short interview with Caitlin Clark's coach. She was frustrated because Caitlin was being fouled repeatedly, and the officials weren't calling it. Her point was simple: Caitlin is a generational talent—a superstar—and should be treated accordingly.
Something about that was unsettling. Not because Caitlin isn't incredibly gifted, because she is. And not because stars shouldn't be protected from dangerous play, because they should. It was the reasoning that caught my attention. The idea that some people deserve different - or better - treatment because they are more important.
George Orwell exposed that instinct years ago in Animal Farm: "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." It's a satirical line, but it rings uncomfortably true. We all say people are equal, yet it's surprisingly easy to convince ourselves that certain people deserve more patience, more grace, more dignity, simply because of their talent, popularity, wealth, or influence.
Caitlin Clark’s coach was arguing for just that.
A little later that day, I was listening to Theo of Golden. Near the end of the story, Theo stands before a very small audience. They weren't celebrities. They weren't influential. They weren't powerful. By most standards, they were ordinary people who would never make headlines.
Yet he addressed them like royalty because, as the book states, “That’s how he saw them.”
And that really struck me.
Both Theo and Caitlin’s coach are calling for the same thing: treat them like royalty, but from entirely different places. One reserves dignity for the few while the other extends it to everyone. One is demanding that royalty be singled out, set apart, for those more equal than others. The other is extending the expectation to everyone.
I didn't realize I would get the chance to choose between those two ideas only a few hours later.
I spent the afternoon cleaning out one of the filthiest homes I've ever been in.
Cat urine had soaked into couches and mattresses. Cat feces covered the floors. The smell clung to everything. It was one of those places where your first instinct is to hurry up, keep your distance, and leave as quickly as possible.
The homeowner sat quietly in her wheelchair. She was hunched over so severely she could barely lift her head. She struggled with her own hygiene. Life had clearly not been kind to her.
As I worked, I couldn't stop thinking about Theo and the call to treat her like royalty. And not because she'd accomplished something remarkable or because she'd earned it, and certainly not because anyone else was watching, but because she was a human being worthy of attention. Of kindness. Of being noticed.
So I slowed down. I joked with her (she is very witty), and at the end, I held her hand for a brief moment as I wished her well on her move to Washington.
I tried to make her feel seen, if only for a little while.
So too did the young father who had brought his teenage son over to mow her lawn. They were there when I arrived. The lawn was scorched and dried and unkempt. They cared for it. Trimmed it. And cleaned it up.
As the father stood talking with her, wishing her well and making sure she was okay, I noticed the son struggling to lift the lawnmower into the back of the pickup, and I immediately saw myself at that age - an awkward teenage boy following my own dad to jobs I'd rather not have been at.
I remember wanting to be anywhere else.
But I also remember those strange little moments when I desperately wanted to prove I was becoming a man. I'd try to lift something that was obviously too heavy because my dad could do it. I wasn’t strong enough, but I wanted to be.
So too did this young man. So as he struggled to put the lawnmower on the back of the truck, I walked over, grabbed the other side of the mower, and helped. The young man said thank you, and I went back into the house for another load and thought about the lesson that father was teaching his son.
His son may not have appreciated being there. He was probably thinking about his friends, about video games, or about anything else he'd rather have been doing. I know I often was. But I believe those moments matter.
That father wasn't just mowing a lawn. He was quietly teaching his son how to see people. How to stop for someone who could offer nothing in return. How to care for someone the world might overlook.
How to treat another human being with dignity.
String enough of those moments together over months and years, and I gotta believe they shape a young man's heart. That they teach him that royalty isn't reserved for people with crowns, championships, followers, influence, or fame.
Royalty can look like an elderly woman sitting alone in a wheelchair in a home that smells of cat urine. Royalty can look like the lonely, the forgotten, the overlooked. It can look a lot like the everyday.
And that thought truly convicted my heart and mind.
Who do I instinctively believe deserves my patience? My attention? My kindness? My respect?
And in the midst of those questions, I keep thinking about that father with his son.
Someday, his son will probably forget the lawnmower. He may even forget mowing that woman's yard altogether. But I hope he never forgets the kind of man his father is. The kind of lesson his father taught.
Because I think that's what yesterday was really about. Not Caitlin Clark. Not cat urine. Not lawnmowers.
It was a quiet reminder that every day, we're teaching ourselves - and the people watching us - who deserves our kindness.
Maybe the truest measure of our character isn't found in how we treat the people the world already celebrates . . .
Maybe it's found in how we treat the people the world has quietly forgotten.
