I was in Atlanta one day, walking through the city, when I noticed a group of men sitting by the side of the street. Their posture—slumped, quiet, a little distant—caught my attention. I slowed my pace. Something in me said: stop.
I approached them, paused near a bench, and asked, “How y’all getting along?” It was a simple question, though I wasn’t sure what kind of answer to expect. One of the men looked up, paused as if gathering his thoughts, then answered quietly: “Not sure yet. They have not opened the doors to the shelter, and we probably can’t get in because it fills up quick.”
That answer held more than just words. It held urgency, patience, anxiety, exhaustion. They were caught in a moment of waiting—waiting for shelter, waiting for relief, for something reliable.
I knelt (or maybe just crouched)—I wanted to be seen, not looming over them. “I have something I would like to give y’all if you’re cool with that,” I said. There was a flicker of hope in their eyes as they nodded.
From my bag I pulled out what I came to call a “Goodness Bag.” Inside I’d packed items many of us never even think about: a few pairs of gloves, extra socks, toothpaste, maybe a toothbrush, and a five‐dollar bill each. I thought the gloves and socks might mean warmth, the toiletries some small dignity; the money, some breathing room.
I handed one bag to each man. One man, after opening his, saw the five‐dollar bill and smiled—but the smile wasn’t just gratitude. It was surprise, relief. He flipped through the other items and asked, “What else is in here?” I told him all I had put—small things, but things that matter when you have so little.
Then I reached out my hand to shake his. He looked me right in the eyes, held the handshake for a moment—but then something inside him shifted. He let go of my hand and instead drew me in for a hug. Strong, honest. He said:
“Kevin, I don’t want to shake your hand… I want to hug you. Thanks, man. You don’t know, you just don’t know! Thank you so much!”
There in that embrace I felt the weight of everything: their struggle, their pride, their humanity. A handshake is nice—but sometimes what someone really needs is connection, to feel they matter, they’re seen.
We stood that way for a few seconds. I could feel the cold in the air; I could see them clutching those small items; I could see a flicker of peace in their eyes. Not because everything was fixed—but because someone cared enough to notice.
On the walk away I kept thinking: how many times do we walk by people—on streets, under bridges, in shelters—without seeing the struggle, without imagining what even one moment of kindness might mean? How many times do we assume someone else will help, or that someone else already has?
I left with more than what I gave. I left with a heart stretched, with gratitude—for what I have, for what I can do, even if it feels small. Maybe that’s the point: small kindnesses, honest interactions, being present.
They asked me if I’d be alright, too. And I realized: yes, I would. Because in doing something for others, I felt more alive.