On a recent Saturday afternoon, a girl—maybe 8 years old—came to my door with a big smile on her face. I recognized her as a neighbor from down the block, a kid who plays in the park across the street.

I opened the door and she presented me with a toothpick. “Hi. Me and my friends are playing a game, and I’m supposed to find something either bigger or better than this.”

You might think that for their own safety kids shouldn’t be knocking on strangers’ doors, or that people shouldn’t be bothered with childs’ play while watching wager-pending college football, or that the kids’ game itself seemed curious. All of those thoughts skittered across my mind. But, what the hell, I went with it. “Okay, sure. Wait here.”

I found a shiny, green, rubber ball on a shelf nearby—a new toy rejected by the cat— and I offered it up. She grabbed it, thanked me, gave me the toothpick (!) and ran off.

It made me grateful that kids can still play silly games, and that not every adult who answers the door is a predator, and that there are spontaneous little nonpartisan joys in being a part of a community.

*****

While having trouble coming to terms with what it means to be an American in these vitriolic, divisive times, I decided to focus a day on what it means to be a human instead. A human among other humans. After adjusting my life lens to apolitical, I was immediately grateful for so many things—big community efforts and small personal encounters—that don’t define us by our choice of a presidential candidate.

A not-surprising number of these lessons came from children. Next up was the 4-year-old next door who, whenever he sees me, always waves and shouts, “Hi, neighbor!” I don’t know his political party. He doesn’t know mine. I don’t know his religion nor every drop of DNA that makes up his skin color. But he makes my day brighter. I get to smile and wave and shout, “Hi, neighbor!” back to him.

Adults showed grace in so many places not-the-Internet, too. I was grateful for the patient, efficient cashier at the grocery store later that day. It was crowded, and an older woman was having trouble with her coupons and debit card at the front of the line. The cashier spoke kindly, worked efficiently and smiled, and the woman, who was a bit trembly and eyeing the line behind her, seemed reassured by the patience he afforded her. It was a simple thing, really.

I looked at the other people in line, humans just standing there being empathetic. At this hateful moment in American history, it seemed noteworthy, heroic almost, like it should’ve been turned into a Flag-Raising-at-Iwo-Jima photo celebrating an American triumph. One guy was wearing a suit and holding a last-minute bunch of asparagus; two women were pushing full carts; another man was toting a baby and a basket of canned soup—and all were able to wait a few extra seconds without groaning or name-calling or blaming the government. It made me proud.

*****

I’m grateful for so many random things in our community: Little Free Libraries sharing books on curbsides; big, quiet, public libraries sharing quiet space and information. I’m grateful for the giant murals Downtown and the Zap! Project boxes in other neighborhoods. It all speaks to an effort to connect with one another peacefully.

And among all of the political diatribe on social media, I’m grateful for wordless Instagram photos of breathtaking scenery from around the world. I love the idea that I get to experience the moment with the photographer when he or she was moved to snap the picture, thinking, “This is so beautiful, I want to share it.”

We’re not so bad. We’ll get through this.