They believe that a small act of compassion can go a long way. But when I agreed to aid a starving homeless man one day, I was unprepared for the heartbreaking experience that occurred less than 24 hours later.
I’m a mother of four amazing, crazy children aged four to eight years old. That morning began like any other.
I was holding my wrinkled grocery list in one hand and my much needed coffee in the other, mentally calculating how to stretch our budget for another week of feeding four growing children.
That’s when I saw him.
A homeless man, holding a desperate sign that read, “HELP.”
The first thing I noticed was his eyes. They weren’t looking at me, or anyone else… just fixed on the displays of fresh bread and fruit through the grocery store window.
“Excuse me, sir,” I approached the man.
“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”
“More than you can imagine, young lady!” I had not eaten since yesterday morning.”
My heart was broken for this man.
How frequently do we stroll past the homeless, indifferent to their plight?
And how often do we look above their circumstances and offer them compassion, not just a piece of bread?
“Please, come shop with me, sir. I’m Greta. I’ll pay for your groceries.”
“Miss, I can’t accept—” he hesitated, but I cut him off gently.
“I insisted.
Besides, I could use some company when shopping.
My children are not here to squabble about which cereal contains the best toy inside. And, frankly, shopping alone is fairly dull.”
A faint smile spread across his aged face.
“I am Morgan. And, thank you.
You remind me of my late daughter Grace.
She was also always willing to help others.
Jack pushed his bowl away dramatically, while James pointed out that this was clearly the end of the world.
“Mom,” Nina looked up at me, “did you forget to buy milk yesterday?”
“Oops, sorry, honey! I’ll get it today, okay?”
I had forgotten that I had given Morgan both milk gallons, so here I was, back at the same grocery shop, bracing for the morning rush. The twins had gone to school with the promise of chocolate milk in their lunch boxes tomorrow to compensate for the breakfast fiasco.
The parking lot was fuller, with mothers like myself completing their morning shopping.
A school bus rumbled past, reminding me that I only had an hour till I had to be in school, ready to face a classroom full of enthusiastic third-graders.
The sounds of slamming car doors and banging shopping carts filled the air.
I almost walked past him.
The straight-backed man in the crisp military uniform couldn’t possibly be the same person I’d helped yesterday. But those eyes… I recognized them immediately.
“Greta,” he called out, his voice stronger than yesterday.
“I hoped you’d come back. I’ve been waiting since dawn.”
“Wait a minute… aren’t you the homeless man I helped yesterday?
Morgan, right?”
“I was a Master Sergeant,” Morgan began, running his fingers over the sleeve of his uniform as we sat on the bench.
“Twenty-six years in service. We lost good pals. Young men who never got to return home.
However, returning home was more difficult than leaving.
“What happened?” I inquired softly, observing how his hands clinched and unclenched as he spoke.
“PTSD.
Depression. The typical story.
My wife died while I was overseas. Cancer.
A year ago, I lost my daughter in a horrible event.
He shook his head as he returned to an empty house.
“They’re giving me a chance to help other vets,” Morgan said, his face beaming. “There’s a new program for soldiers just returning home. They want me to be their mentor and assist them re-adjust before the darkness falls.
Share my story, you know?
Show them that there is hope, even when it appears to be lost.”
“Morgan, that’s wonderful!” I felt tears run down my cheeks.
“Your kindness… it reminded me that I still have something to give,” he replied, smoothing his military jacket. “This morning, I had my first shower in months.
I got my old outfit out of storage. It feels awkward to wear it again.
But it’s positively odd.
It’s like returning home… to a house where I’m ready for this moment.”
He dug into his pocket and took out two gallons of milk. “These are for your children. I bought them just now.
I can’t have your children miss their meal because of me.
And this—”he pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand, “is my number. “If you ever need anything at all…”
“Promise.
Just keep educating your children about kindness, Greta. It saves lives.
I am live proof of that.
And maybe one day I’ll meet them. Tell them stories about their mother, the angel who saved an elderly soldier’s life with food and a kind word.”
I watched him walk away, his uniform glistening in the morning sun, his strides steady and determined.
