It was a normal winter day, but colder than the day before when I went to run errands in town.
I came across a young man who was struggling and offered to help. My efforts blessed me with a gift I didn’t expect, one that changed my life forever.
It was one of those bitter January afternoons,
the kind where the cold feels personal, sinking into every layer you wear, including your bones, and biting at your face like you’d wronged it. I’d just wrapped up errands when I decided to take a moment to be grateful for all I had. I didn’t know I was about to be a blessing to someone else.
I had just finished grocery shopping and picking up my husband’s dry cleaning when I walked past St. Peter’s Church and decided to step inside for a few quiet moments of reflection. I don’t even remember what made me stop there, maybe it was the need for stillness, a break from the noise of my everyday life.
The man looked no older than thirty. His coat was threadbare, his head bare to the cold wind, and his fingers—stiff and red—fumbled helplessly at his shoes, which were falling apart. It wasn’t just that they were worn; the soles were hanging on by sheer will, held together by makeshift pieces of twine.
I hesitated. I’m not proud of that moment, but there’s something about seeing suffering that makes you second-guess stepping in. What if he’s dangerous? What if he doesn’t want my help?
But then he looked up.
His face was gaunt and wind-chapped, but his eyes — deep, brown, and hollow — stopped me in my tracks. There was something fragile about him, like one more bad day might break him completely.
I couldn’t walk past, no matter how doubtful I was or how hard I tried. Something about him struck a chord and kept me in place. I crouched beside him, my knees protesting as the freezing stone bit through my jeans.
He blinked at me with his red, tired, and bloodshot eyes that still held a spark of hope. Startled, as if he wasn’t used to someone noticing him at all, he replied, “You don’t have to —”
“Let me,” I cut in, firm but gentle. I dropped my bag beside me and pulled off my gloves. My fingers immediately stung from the cold, but it didn’t matter. I untied the knotted string holding his shoe together and tried to fasten it more securely.
He was quiet as I worked, watching me with something I couldn’t place — gratitude, maybe, or disbelief. When I finished, I pulled the scarf from my shoulders. It was my favorite one, a thick gray knit my husband, Ben, had given me years ago.
