Gestures of Kindness and Compassion

I saw this short story today in a group called "Small Great Things" and couldn't stop my eyes from welling with tears. It is such a beautiful example of how every act of kindness makes a difference. It also shows us how one person's loving gesture can have such a tremendously positive impact and generate even more loving acts of generosity.

Furthermore, it also illustrates the possibility that people may WANT to make a difference but they often aren't sure how or they may feel their idea is "too small" to have an impact. It is my belief that no gesture of kindness is ever too small and taking action often inspires others to do something to support humanity as well.

IMHO - These are the kinds of things we need now more than ever. My questions for anyone reading this are: Can we look out for each other, provide help and support in whatever way we can? Is there something you could do today? This week? 

And can we do these things - not because we want to impress people or show them how great we are - but because our hearts know that this is something our world truly needs - especially right now. 

Here is the story: 

They call it “lunch shaming.” I call it cruelty. For 38 years, I watched it happen from my history classroom. Then, one Tuesday, I decided to become a quiet criminal.

My name is Arthur Harrison. For nearly four decades, my world has been cinder block walls, the smell of old books, and the drone of the 2:15 PM bell. I teach American History. I’ve lectured on the Great Depression, on bread lines and poverty, trying to make the black-and-white photos feel real to kids who live in a world of vibrant color and constant noise.

But the most brutal history lesson wasn’t in my textbook. It was in the cafeteria.

It was a Tuesday when I saw it happen to Marcus, a quiet sophomore who sat in the back of my third-period class. He was a good kid, drew incredible sketches of Civil War soldiers in his notebook margins. I saw him at the front of the lunch line. The cashier, a woman I’d known for twenty years, said something to him. I saw his shoulders slump. He was handed not a tray of hot food, but a cold cheese sandwich and a small milk carton—the “alternative meal.” The IOU. The badge of shame.

He walked past his friends, eyes glued to the floor, and sat at an empty table at the far end of the cafeteria. He didn’t eat. He just stared at the wall. In that moment, he wasn’t a student. He was a statistic. His family’s bank account balance was on public display, served between two slices of cheap bread.

Something inside me, a part of my soul worn thin by years of budget cuts and standardized tests, finally snapped.

The next day, I walked into the main office before school. Linda, the cafeteria manager, was there sorting receipts.

“Art,” she said, not looking up. “Don’t tell me the coffee machine is broken again.”

“It’s fine, Linda,” I said, sliding a folded fifty-dollar bill across the counter. “I want to start a fund. Anonymously. For the kids who come up short. When it happens, just… take it from this. No cheese sandwiches.”

She finally looked up, her eyes lingering on the money, then on my face. She didn’t say a word. She just gave a slow, deliberate nod and tucked the bill into her apron.

I started doing it every week. A fifty, sometimes a hundred if my pension check had a little extra. I called it the “Invisible Lunch Fund.” Linda never mentioned it, but sometimes I’d see her give a real hot meal to a kid I knew was struggling, and she’d catch my eye from across the room with that same quiet nod. It was our secret conspiracy of decency.

This went on for a year. It was my quiet rebellion.

Then, one afternoon, Sarah, the sharpest student in my AP History class, stayed after the bell.

“Mr. Harrison?” she started, twisting the strap of her backpack. “I have a question. It’s not about the homework.”

“Go ahead, Sarah.”

“I know about the lunch money,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “My mom works in the school office. She sees Linda’s accounting. There’s a line item she just writes in as ‘Donation.’ I know it’s you.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was caught. I imagined disciplinary meetings, being told I’d broken some obscure district policy.

But Sarah wasn’t angry. Her eyes were shining. “We want to help,” she said.

The next Monday, a group of students from my AP class set up a bake sale in the main hall. The sign, hand-painted on poster board, read: “BAKE SALE FOR BENEDICT ARNOLDS. (Because betraying your friends by letting them go hungry is treason.)”

By lunchtime, they had a shoebox overflowing with crumpled bills and coins. They placed it on my desk without a word. Over four hundred dollars. The administration, to their credit, looked the other way.

I’m retiring this year. The Invisible Lunch Fund is now just “The Fund,” and it’s run entirely by the students. They’ve made it their own.

For 38 years, I tried to teach kids that history is shaped by big speeches and epic battles. I was wrong. History isn’t just about the noise. It’s about the quiet moments, the unspoken acts of grace. It’s written not in textbooks, but on a lunch receipt when one person decides that another human being will not be shamed for being hungry. That’s the America I want to believe in. That’s the lesson I finally learned.

Thank you Carol Sacks Goldstein for sharing..

Don't Stop Believing in Humanity

When I was in college, I was on the rowing team. Practice was at 5am, which was brutal enough but the closer it got to finals and the later into the evening I had to study, the harder it was to get my sleep deprived body up with that morning alarm. One particular morning, I woke up to see I had less than 5 minutes to get myself dressed and to the bus stop around the corner where our team bus picked up those of us in the surrounding dorms. I don't know if I forgot to set the alarm or if I set it and slept through it - all I knew is that I had to get MOVING. I managed to get sweats on, several layers of shirts and my socks when I heard the sound of the bus down the street. 

Grabbing my jacket and my tennis shoes, I went running out of my dorm room, flying down the steps outside hoping to make it in time. Luck wasn't on my side, as the bus pulled away from the curb before I could even make it across the grass in front of my dorm. The thing was I HAD to be at practice. Coach had been very clear - if we missed a practice that week, we would not be able to participate in the Regatta that weekend - so I needed to get to practice. Running behind the bus, I screamed and wildly waved my right arm, while my left hand clutched my tennis shoes and my jacket. There was half melted snow on the ground so my wool socks were quickly becoming very wet and very heavy but I refused to let that slow me down. I just kept running . . . yet when I heard Fr. Siconolfi shift the bus into a higher gear, I could feel my heart sink. There was no way I'd catch the bus now.

Just then a man pulled up in a small blue truck. He rolled down the passenger window (which he had to do by hand - this was in the 80's after all) and yelled "Do you need to catch that bus?" Gasping for air, all I could do was nod my head yes, so he opened the door from the inside and motioned for me to get in. Diving into the front seat of his truck, we were on the move before I had even pulled the door all the way closed. He quickly shared that his sons had played football and he knew how important it was to never miss a practice. 

I'm pretty sure he ignored all the posted speed limit signs as we flew down the road, making a hard left, then a hard right at the next corner. We were then on the two-lane straight part of the road. I remember this kind man had a very hot cup of coffee in a paper cup wedged between his legs so he could keep shift gears to keep pace with the bus and I also recall worrying several times that it was going to spill on him. 

Fortunately for me, he seemed as determined as I was to not have me miss practice so he did his best to stay lined up with the bus. Continuing to flail my arms wildly while yelling to get his attention, Father Siconolfi remained oblivious to the girl hanging out the window of the small blue truck. Fortunately one of my teammates, in their hazy sleep deprived state, finally noticed me and got him to pull over. Quickly thanking the man, I grabbed my tennis shoes and jacket and made a beeline for the bus. 

Over the years whenever I shared this story, hoping people would understand why I believed in the good side of humanity (and why I loved Spokane so much), most of the time they didn't get it. The part that most people latched onto was that "I got into a stranger's truck." They responded with things like "He could have been a serial killer" and "Maureen you are just way too trusting." (Geez, what if I was the serial killer? He would have been the one putting his life in danger by stopping to help me!!) LOL

I have continued to share the story though - in an attempt to illustrate my belief that there are wonderful people everywhere - people who are willing to lend a hand - showing up when we need them most and going the extra mile. At times we may have to pay more attention to notice these genuine acts of kindness but they are out there and they are in more places than we see reported on mainstream media. 

I have thought of the kindness of this man so many times in the last thirty some odd years and I still feel so much gratitude for his help that day. What he did for ME has inspired me over the years to keep being there for others. Sometimes when my faith in humanity wobbles a bit, all I have to do is pull up the memory of that morning and I am instantly reconnected with the remembrance what he did for me that day and the faith that it instilled in me - that there are people like him all over the world. 

My only regret from that morning was that I never got his name so I was not able to thank him properly or as profusely as my heart wanted to. So this post has three purposes:

1) To encourage people to look for the good in humanity. If you take the time to look, you will see examples and it will likely result in you noticing even more of the ways people are being there for each other. (And let's face it, how can that not put a smile on your face and in your heart.)

2) To inspire people to stay open to the opportunities where they can assist and support others and be the illustration of the goodness that exists in the world. You may never know how many ripples of kindness it will create yet I have seen evidence time and again where someone's act of kindness inspired someone else to do something kind. We have the power to make our humanity a force to be reckoned with. It is my belief that every effort can and will make a difference.

3) That someone who lived in Spokane back in the 80s might know a man who drove a small blue truck and would have been on his way to work at 5:00 in the morning, who has sons who played football. My hope is that by some miracle he will somehow end up seeing this. It would make me so very happy if he knew how grateful I was and still am for his help that morning and how much he has inspired me over the years. The funny thing is that I don't think we even did all that well in the Regatta that weekend but I got to be there and I got to row because thanks to him I didn't miss practice that morning. 

If you feel moved to share actions - either witnessed or done by you - that have restored your faith in humanity, please feel free to write about them in the comments. I'd love to see them and I bet others would too. 

ps: I keep thinking about the movie Powder (1995) and how a line in the movie gave me such huge goosebumps that I wrote it on a post-it note and placed it on the refrigerator so I would see it every day (and it was there for decades). If I recall correctly, Jeff Goldblum's character said something like "My hope is that one day our humanity will surpass our technology." That was and still is something I hope to experience as well and I truly believe that we have the ability to create it.