When I retired from the Chicago Police Department, I had served for over 31 years, seventeen of which as a supervisor, either sergeant or lieutenant. I had had the good fortune to work all over the city, in several different capacities. My retirement was a celebration of that service, and I was humbled by how well it was attended.

At some point during that fateful evening, I was astounded and completely taken aback by something a few officers said to me. A group of three younger officers, early thirties maybe, two men and a woman, stopped me. 

They shook my hand and each of them recounted to me how I had impacted their careers, how I had changed their professional lives with the leadership and example I set. My eyes moistened, and I was nearly driven to tears on the spot. Although it was an emotional evening, it wasn't like I was retiring on my own terms.

They told me that they were now studying for the next promotional exam and that they hoped to be able to get promoted to sergeant and have the kind of profound effect on other officers' careers, as I had with theirs.

I do not take compliments particularly well;  I'm shy and like to think of myself as humble. And I felt uncomfortable as they continued to praise my influence on them. But what bothered me most was that I didn't know who they were, their names, or when I worked with them.

I felt like such an asshole.

It troubled me that I couldn't remember their names. I was just myself, certainly a champion of the working officer, but I didn't consider myself anything special, just a copper doing his best given the nature of the department and society. 

My brain scoured my memory trying to place them, but I couldn't do so. Considering how many people I have worked with, I guess that wasn't such a terrible thing, or at least I allowed myself to think so. In my defense, I had supervised a great many people. But still . . . 

Then I had an epiphany, much like I had shortly after making sergeant.

I came on the job to help people, to serve the community. 

We all did.

Whether I was successful or not, I'm not sure, but I tried to approach every call as if I were responding to an incident involving my mom and dad, had they called the police. Later, I would ask myself, when evaluating an officer's effectiveness, "Would I be comfortable with this officer responding to that call involving my mother and father?"

And when I made sergeant, it occurred to me one evening in the Third District's parking lot on 71st Street and Cottage Grove Avenue, that now, not only did I serve the community, but the men and women, for whom I was accountable. I felt responsible for their physical, legal, and emotional well-being. I fought for them to have what they needed to do their job and had their backs should they make a mistake. It changed how I approached being a supervisor, their supervisor. And that distinction made all the difference in the world to me. 

These three officers, in a sense, were telling me I had been successful in my service to the men and women under my supervision. That filled my heart with joy and satisfaction. 

A similar example occurred while with the Bridgeview Police Department. The chief called me into this office and handed me a letter. In that letter, the author recounted how two Bridgeview police officers had saved his life a couple of years earlier. 

That man said that he had been down and out, penniless, a homeless alcoholic who didn't have anything to live for. He'd lost his family, his house, car, and his career, and now was broke, drunk, dumpster diving in the garbage cans behind one of the village's motels, seriously contemplating killing himself. He didn't have anything to live for. 

These two officers saved his life, and he was now reconnected with his family, working toward making amends, he had a job again, and had cleaned up his life. He desperately wanted to say thank you, but he didn't know their names.

The chief asked me to identify the officers. I didn't have much to go on, but I was able to track the officers down. I read the letter out loud in roll call when the two officers were present. When I finished, I looked up and saw everyone in roll call, including the two coppers, who were looking around to see who had done the good deed.

These two officers didn't even remember the incident, let alone the guy. 

Once I revealed that I was talking about them, and they had finally placed the incident, they said that they were just doing their job. Obviously, they had shown compassion, but they didn't see it as doing anything special, just what anyone else would've done under the circumstances. Much like I didn't see that I was doing anything special in how I approached my responsibility to the officers under my supervision. 

One more example: a younger officer had indicated to me she wanted to quit. To give up. That adjusting to being a cop was just "Too much". 

As we spoke, I reminded her of what she had shared with me months earlier. That as a young girl, she'd been sexually assaulted. Yes, her life had been marred by the incident, yet her life had been changed by the officers who responded to her outcry, who investigated the incident, who apprehended the offender, and who saw her through the prosecution, including all of the dirty, slimy tricks of the defense. How could one imply the twelve-year-old had "Wanted it," and still look at themselves in the mirror?

Then I asked her what she thought little girls saw when they spotted her driving around in the squad car, when they saw her in the community, in the schools, in her uniform, with that star pinned to her chest. 

I asked her if she thought she was having a profound impact on any of those little girls. Was she changing the lives of any of the children when she responded to calls that represented catastrophic events in their lives? Were any of them emerging from the other side of that chaos wanting to be a cop, to emulate her like she had the officers who had responded to her in her time of need?

She didn't know.

None of us does.

But it's what we do. 

I preach to the men and women in roll call, in the classes I teach, and wherever I can catch their ear, that they have no idea the profound effect they have on people, and especially children, just by being there, in uniform, with a smile and a kind wave, or when they jump into the turmoil and chaos of whatever conflict to which they're going to bring to a resolution.

I'm proud to say that the young officer is still a cop, still out there doing good and looking sharp.

So you just don't know what your presence is doing for someone in their time of need. But in reality, you don't have to know . . . just that you be there.