Why I Cry at Belts and Socks

My husband, a city police officer, is puzzled with me, sometimes, because I cry when I watch COPS with him.

“That guy wore socks!!”
“Do they not match? I’m confused.”
“I know they’re on meth, and I KNOW they made a lot of bad decisions- but they’re people. At some point this morning, they got up and put on their socks and belt. And they have a name because someone loved them, and a last name because they have a family somewhere.”

I sob. A lot. He just sighs and pats my leg.

I’m so grateful that, on his day-to-day, he gets that. When he runs someone to our local psych office for suicide attempts (most recently a mom who had lost her husband and son a year prior), he prays with them. He checks up on them later and learns she’s doing better. He knows the old man with Alzheimer’s didn’t have anything in his kitchen, so he brings him groceries. He tells little kids in restaurants that he won’t arrest them for acting out after their parents scare them with “I told you to sit down or I’d call the police!”, and (when he has them) gives out stickers.  At the minimum, he always shares a smile and lets them know that the police are the good guys.  Who wants their kids being scared of calling 911?

Thankful for all of our officers, but especially thankful for mine.


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