On a chilly winter night, I bought shawarma for a homeless man and his dog. At the time, it appeared to be a straightforward act of generosity. However, I realized this was no typical encounter when he slipped me a message that hinted at a past I had completely forgotten.
I was employed at a downtown mall sports goods store. I believed that nothing could surprise me after 17 years of marriage, two teens, and innumerable late shifts. However, that’s how life is hilarious.
Holiday customers’ demands for refunds over obviously worn things had made that day especially difficult. In addition, my daughter Amy texted me about failing another math test, and a register kept jamming. It would have been necessary for us to consider hiring a tutor.
As my shift ended, my thoughts lingered on everything weighing on my mind. To make matters worse, the temperature had dropped to bitterly cold levels, with the store’s exterior thermometer showing 26.6°F.
Stepping outside, I was met by the biting wind that sent loose papers swirling over the sidewalk and howled between the buildings. Dreaming of the warm bath waiting for me at home, I pulled my coat tighter around myself.
As I walked toward the bus stop, the familiar shawarma stand caught my eye. It had been a fixture for as long as I had worked at the store, nestled between a gloomy convenience store and a shuttered flower shop. The grill’s metal surface sent plumes of steam into the frigid air. The aroma of spices and cooked pork almost tempted me to stop, but I hesitated. I wasn’t particularly fond of the vendor, a stocky man with a perpetual frown etched into his face.
You could receive your shawarma in two seconds, and the food was wonderful, but I didn’t want to be grumpy today.
However, when I noticed a homeless man approaching the stand with his dog, I still stopped. The man, who was about fifty-five, glanced at the revolving meat with a chilly, hungry expression.
The poor puppy had no fur, while the guy had a thin coat. For them, my heart ached.
The vendor’s piercing voice surprised me, “You going to order something or just stand there?”
I observed the homeless man collecting his bravery. “Please, sir. With his shoulders slumped,” he questioned, “Just some hot water?”
Unfortunately, I was aware of the vendor’s answer before he ever spoke. “LEAVE THIS PLACE!” “It’s not charity!” he yelled.
The man’s shoulders slumped as the dog came closer to its owner. That’s when I saw a picture of my grandmother.
She had told me stories of her difficult upbringing and how one act of compassion had prevented her family from being hungry. Her words came to mind, even if I couldn’t always help, and I’d never forgotten that lesson:
“Kindness costs nothing but can change everything.”
Before I realized it, the words spilled out of me. “Two coffees and two shawarmas, please.”
The vendor gave a curt nod and quickly got to work. When he placed the order on the counter, he said bluntly, “$18.”
I handed over the cash, grabbed the tray and the to-go bag, and hurried toward the homeless man.
His hands trembled as I passed him the food.
“God bless you, child,” he said softly, his voice heavy with gratitude.
I gave him a quick, awkward nod, eager to escape the biting cold and get home. But just as I turned, his hoarse voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Wait,” the man called out. He pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper, scribbled something quickly, and held it out to me as I turned back. “Read it at home,” he said, flashing an odd grin.
I stuffed the note into my pocket with a nod, already preoccupied with thoughts of what to make for dinner and whether there would be any seats on the bus.
That evening, life at home carried on as usual. My son, Derek, needed help with his science project. Amy, my daughter, was frustrated with her math teacher. Tom, my husband, chatted about a new client at his legal practice.
The note remained forgotten in my coat pocket until the next evening when I was gathering clothes for the laundry.
Unfolding the crumpled paper, I read the message:
“I’m grateful that you saved my life. You have saved it before, though you may not realize it.”
Beneath the message was a date from three years ago and the name “Lucy’s Café.”
I almost let the clothing slip out of my grasp. Before it closed, I frequently ate lunch at Lucy’s.
Suddenly, I was filled with vivid memories of that day. A lot of people sought cover in the café during the thunderstorm.
A man had entered by accident. His clothing was saturated, and I could tell by the expression in his eye that he was in more than just a food crisis. For another reason.
I was the only one who even glanced at him. The waitress nearly pushed him away, but I heard my grandmother’s voice again just like the day before.
I thus got him a croissant and coffee.
I smiled my biggest smile and wished him a good day. I felt it was nothing extraordinary.
My heart ached all over again when I saw that same man. His circumstances hadn’t improved, yet he still remembered my small act of kindness. But was a meal every few years enough to make any real difference?
That question haunted me throughout the night, making sleep impossible.
The next day, I left work early.
Fortunately, I found him tucked in a corner near the shawarma stand, cradling his dog. The little puppy wagged its tail excitedly when it saw me.
“Hey there,” I said with a smile. “I read your message. It’s incredible that you still remember that moment.”
The homeless man looked up, startled to see me, and gave a fragile smile. “You’re a bright spot in a harsh world, child,” he said. “You’ve saved me twice now.”
“I didn’t,” I said with a headshake. “That was merely some food and common sense. I’d like to do more. Will you actually allow me to assist you?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because everyone deserves a second chance—a real one.”
I told him to follow me after he nodded.
He needed a lot of help getting back on his feet, and since my husband is a lawyer, I thought we might be of assistance. I wanted to know him better first, so I asked him to a café, gave him a full introduction, and found out that his name was Victor.
Victor talked about how he lost everything over two cups of coffee, a cherry pie they shared, and a puppy treat for his dog, Lucky. He had a wife and a daughter and had worked as a truck driver.
A motorist swerved into his lane one rainy night. He suffered a broken limb and crippling medical debt as a result of the accident. His wife took their daughter and left when he was unable to find another job.
His employer declined to provide disability compensation in spite of his injuries. And finally, he was completely consumed by depression.
“That day at Lucy’s,” he admitted, putting his hands over his coffee cup, “I was going to cut everything off.” However, you gave me a smile. regarded me with human decency. I was granted one additional day. Then another. Then another. I eventually discovered Lucky alone, but I persisted. I felt less isolated.
His cheeks were wet with tears. He concluded by saying, “And now here you are again.” “Just when this rough weather had me wondering if I should let someone adopt my dog.”
Tears filled my eyes and I shook my head. “No, that is not required of you. I’m present. Without you, Lucky is not going anywhere.”
I got in touch with a nearby shelter that evening and got Victor and his dog a place.
