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Most mornings, when I stop at Safeway for my bagel, I see him.
An older man, moving slowly through the store with the help of a walker. His clothes are worn and unwashed, his hair and beard unkempt, and there’s no mistaking the scent of a life lived without easy access to comfort. He doesn’t blend in. He can’t.
And yet, in another way, he stands out more than anyone else in the store.
He always says hello.
Not just a passing nod — but a genuine greeting. He looks people in the eye. He speaks to the workers like they matter. Like they’re seen.
This morning, I found myself behind him in the checkout line.
He was careful — deliberate in every movement. From his pocket, he pulled out a small collection of wrinkled dollar bills, mixed together with old receipts. It took time to sort through them. His hands moved slowly, almost tenderly, as if each dollar carried weight beyond its value.
At one point, he turned slightly toward me and said, “I’m sorry you have to wait.”
I told him, “No problem. Take your time.”
And I meant it.
The cashier, to his credit, was patient, too — though I could sense a bit of nervousness creeping in as the seconds stretched on.
Finally, he laid out $3. Just enough for a loaf of bread.
The cashier rang it up and placed the money in the till. The transaction could have ended there, but it didn’t.
The man asked for a bag. He handed him one. Then, almost as an afterthought — but not really — he reached into his pocket again and pulled out a quarter. He offered it to her.
“I can’t reopen the till,” she said gently.
He paused, then replied, “I’ll just leave it here for the next time you do.”
Bags at Safeway cost eight cents. Eight cents. And yet he insisted on paying.
Before he turned to leave, he looked at me again and said, “I hope you have a wonderful day.”
And just like that, he was gone — walking slowly, carefully, with his loaf of bread.
But he left something behind. A reminder. He always greets people. He never asks for anything. He pays for what he takes — even when it costs him more than most of us would notice.
And he is consistently, quietly kind.
I stood there for a moment after he left, thinking about what I had just seen. Not pity. Not discomfort. Respect.
Because somewhere along the way, this man — who appears to have so little — has held onto something many of us lose.
Dignity.
Courtesy.
A sense of responsibility.
And a kindness that asks for nothing in return.
It brought to mind the words of Jesus in Gospel of Matthew 25:40:
“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”
We often think of that verse in terms of what we give. But sometimes, it’s also about what we receive. A greeting. A moment of patience. A lesson in quiet integrity.
Sometimes the “least of these” are the ones who end up teaching us the most.
And if we’re paying attention, they remind us of who we’re meant to be.
Porch Blessing
May you never be so rushed that you forget to be kind.
May you always have enough — and still remember the value of a single coin.
And when you encounter someone the world has overlooked, may you see not what they lack … but the quiet strength they carry.
•••
Dr. Richard J. Stride is a CEO of a local behavioral health agency. He can be reached at docrs53@gmail.com.
