Fourteen years ago, I encountered a man named Will—at his absolute lowest. Homeless, addicted to heroin, and wandering a streetside dumpster, looking for something to recycle just so he could survive. His life had derailed after his wife’s sudden passing, and a single misstep led him down a path he never imagined.
I’ll never forget the moment he looked up at me, tired and broken, and offered a faint explanation of how he ended up there. Just one try, he said, after losing everything important to him. The grief was heavy. The result? Life spun out of control.
We began to talk. And as odd as it sounds, dumpster-to-diner friendships can be surprisingly real. I found myself rerouting my day to pass by the dumpster near Hatch and Herndon, hoping I’d catch sight of him. I wasn’t just trying to help—err, well, I was—but I also genuinely enjoyed his company. He had stories—sometimes cracked, sometimes hopeful—that resonated more than many of my previous connections. Our conversations became solace for two people navigating difficult moments.
Sometimes I’d offer advice from my own life, and he’d reflect it back with clarity I didn’t know he had. Then, just as unexpectedly as he’d appeared in my daily routine, he vanished. No note. No farewell. Nothing. Just gone. I found myself wondering about him—for years. Was he alive? Was he battling further? I didn’t know.
Then came that day—at a Chevron, of all places. I’d stopped in for gas, and in the lobby, I saw a man waiting outside the restroom. He had tears in his eyes. “Do you remember me?” he asked.
Two seconds felt like an eternity before I responded, “Of course—I remember.”
There were tears. Nostalgia hit like a freight train. He reminded me of the boots and jacket I’d given him—items meant to ward off the cold. And the $7—more than money—it was a promise disguised as pocket change. A vow that he wouldn’t use it to relapse, but to reclaim his life.
He kept that promise.
With that, Will got his identification back. That small piece of plastic opened doors—literally. He found a job. A sense of stability began to return. He met someone new, someone special, and built… a family again.
And, perhaps most meaningfully, he found solace in faith. Something in him healed. What was once a face obscured by hardship became one lit by hope.
In the store, tears streamed but smiles shone just as bright. The clerk, though curious, graciously snapped a photo of us—two souls whose paths had reconnected in a moment thick with gratitude, redemption, and grace.
If there’s anything to take away from this—it’s that kindness matters. That even the smallest gestures—boots, jacket, seven bucks—can become turning points. And even if you’re the giver, you may never realize how much something so simple can alter a life’s direction.
So be kind. You never know who’s watching—or who will one day call your act the moment that saved them.