On a bitterly cold winter evening, I found myself at the end of a long, grueling workday. I’d been dealing with disgruntled holiday shoppers, faulty registers, and my daughter Amy’s disappointing math test results. But as I stood on the icy sidewalk, all I could think about was getting home, taking a hot bath, and putting the day behind me.
I worked at a sporting goods store in a downtown mall, a job I’d held for years. After 17 years of marriage, raising two teenagers, and countless late shifts, I thought nothing could surprise me anymore. But life, as it often does, had a way of throwing unexpected moments my way.
That night, the temperature had dropped to a biting 26°F, and the wind cut through the streets like ice. As I made my way toward the bus stop, I passed a familiar shawarma stand nestled between a closed flower shop and a convenience store. The steam from the grill wafted into the chilly air, filling the street with the mouthwatering smell of roasted meat and spices. I briefly considered stopping for a bite but dismissed the idea. The vendor, a stocky man with permanent frown lines, was always gruff, and I wasn’t in the mood for his attitude.
However, as I walked past, I noticed a homeless man and his dog standing by the stand. The man, likely in his mid-fifties, appeared cold and hungry, his thin coat offering little protection against the harsh weather. The puppy at his side had little fur, its eyes wide and trusting.
“Are you gonna order something or just stand there?” The vendor’s sharp voice broke my thoughts.
The homeless man hesitated, his shoulders hunched against the cold. “Sir, could I just have some hot water?” he asked, his voice small.
I knew what was coming next. The vendor barked, “GET OUT OF HERE! This ain’t no charity!”
The man’s shoulders slumped, and I felt a pang in my chest. My grandmother’s words suddenly echoed in my mind: “Kindness costs nothing but can change everything.” She had raised me on stories of how a simple act of kindness had once saved her family from starvation, and I couldn’t ignore that lesson.
Without thinking, I spoke up. “Two coffees and two shawarmas,” I told the vendor.
He nodded, and within moments, my order was ready. I handed over the $18, grabbed the to-go bag, and made my way to the homeless man.
When I gave him the food, his hands shook as he thanked me. “God bless you, child,” he whispered.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me. “Wait,” he said, pulling out a pen and a crumpled piece of paper. He scribbled something on it quickly and handed it to me. “Read it at home,” he instructed with a strange smile.
I slipped the note into my pocket without a second thought and continued my journey home. The evening unfolded like any other — my son Derek needed help with his science project, Amy complained about her math teacher, and my husband Tom discussed work. But the note remained forgotten in my coat pocket until the following evening, when I was gathering laundry.
Curious, I unfolded the crumpled paper and read the message: “Thank you for saving my life. You don’t know this, but you’ve already saved it once before.” Below the message was a date — three years ago — and the name “Lucy’s Café.”
The words hit me like a wave. I remembered that day clearly. It had been stormy, and many people had taken shelter at the café where I often went for lunch. A man had walked in, soaked to the bone, and looked lost, desperate even. He was trying to hide it, but I could tell. The waitress had been about to turn him away, but I, remembering my grandmother’s lessons, bought him a coffee and a croissant, simply treating him like a person.
It was that same man. The realization sent a jolt through me. His life hadn’t gotten any better, yet he remembered my kindness. But was a simple meal enough? Had I done enough?
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The next day, I left work early, hoping to find him.
When I spotted him near the shawarma stand again, I approached him, smiling. “I read the note,” I said. “I can’t believe you remembered that day.”
His face softened, and he gave me a brittle smile. “You’re a bright spot in a harsh world, child. You’ve saved me twice now.”
“I didn’t,” I replied, shaking my head. “That was just food. Basic decency. But I want to do more. Will you let me help you?”
He was taken aback. “Why would you do that?”
“Because everyone deserves a second chance,” I said. “A real one.”
He nodded, and I invited him to a café where we could talk more. His name was Victor, and over two cups of coffee, he shared his heartbreaking story. He had once been a truck driver with a wife and daughter. But after a devastating accident, his life spiraled downward. His medical bills piled up, and his wife and daughter left. With no support, depression took over, and he ended up on the streets.
“That day at Lucy’s,” Victor confessed, tears welling up in his eyes, “I was planning to end it all. But your kindness gave me another day. Then another. Then I found Lucky, and I kept going. I didn’t feel so alone.”
Victor’s story broke my heart, but I wasn’t going to let him face this alone. I contacted a local shelter, secured a spot for him and his dog, and started a GoFundMe for essentials. Tom’s colleague, a disability lawyer, offered to take his case pro bono.
Over the following weeks, we helped Victor get back on his feet. We replaced his identification, found him a job, and eventually, he moved into a small apartment.
On my birthday the following year, the doorbell rang. It was Victor, dressed in clean clothes and holding a chocolate cake. “You’ve saved my life three times now,” he said. “I’ll never forget it.”
As I hugged him and invited him inside, I realized how close I had come to walking past him that night, too busy with my own troubles to notice someone else’s pain.
It reminded me to always look for opportunities to make the world a little kinder — because you never know when a simple act of kindness could save a life.