My theft was a victimless crime. Or was it?

Stealing is never a victimless crime. It always causes pain to someone.

It was almost Christmas, and I was shopping at a big box store, and I had a problem.

I needed tape.

One of the packages in my car that I needed to mail on my way home had popped open, and I need a piece of tape to seal it shut again. A little piece would do.

The big box store had tape, oh yes, they had six huge rolls of packing tape for $20. I needed only one piece, and I already some at home, so what would I do with six more rolls?

It was the last day to ship that package so it would arrive in time for Christmas, and the Post Office was closing in less than half an hour. Yes, the Post Office sold tape, they’d want a ridiculous price for it. Besides, would I even have time to check out and mail my package before they closed?

And then I saw it, the answer to my problem, a roll of packing tape on a steel demo table. I looked around for the person doing the demo, to ask if I could have a piece of tape. I was sure they’d say yes. But no one was around. I was at the far side of the store—all the store associates were dealing with the Christmas rush, way on the other side by the registers, helping people check out.

The temptation hit—they’d give it to me anyway, right? Nobody would mind if I tore off a little piece.

I looked around again, furtive this time, didn’t want any of the other shoppers to see me. That look proved what I was doing was wrong, but I still tore off a piece, stuck it to the back of my phone, trekked to the checkout line, and left. I sealed up my box and mailed it on time and all was well.

Except it wasn’t.

Because I had stolen something. People who steal are thieves, and stealing is wrong. An unrepentant thief’s conscience is never at peace.

I told myself I was making a big deal out of nothing. I told myself that if I went back to the store and tried to pay for the tape, the counter rep would stare at me funny and think I’d lost my mind. They’d never accept payment for a little piece of packing tape, they’d tell me to forget about it. They might even think I was some kind of holier-than-thou hypocrite, trying to show how virtuous I was, that I was making this small theft right to show off. It would be embarrassing, it would be humiliating, and worst of all, it wouldn’t work. They’d never let me make restitution.

So I didn’t. I went on with my business. But that theft slowly tore away at my sense of self. I wasn’t a thief—yet I was. I was an honest person—yet I wasn’t. My beliefs about myself were crumbling. If you’re a thief for a penny, you’re a thief for a dollar, you’re a thief for a million dollars. What price had I put on my integrity? A slice of packing tape.

I was sick inside. And I knew I had to make it right. I had to go back to the perception of myself as an honest person—a person who made stupid mistakes sometimes, but was willing to make them right.

So I paid for the tape, and I apologized, and I did it through the mail and in cash, so no one could deny me the chance to pay the amount I’d decided was right.

And the world snapped back on kilter. And I wasn’t a thief any more. And the pain of knowing I’d traded my integrity for a piece of tape was gone.

Stealing always hurts SOMEONE. It always causes pain, it always creates a victim. And t

he person it hurts the worst is the person who steals.