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Life has a way of surprising us with moments that change our perspective forever. For me, that moment came through a simple act of kindness from my 5-year-old son, Josiah.
We were sitting at Waffle House, just the two of us, when Josiah suddenly stopped eating and pointed toward the window. Outside, a man stood alone, his clothes worn, his face etched with exhaustion. He clutched a small, tattered bag—everything he owned in the world.
“Mom,” Josiah whispered, tugging at my sleeve. “Who is that?”
I glanced over. “I think he might be homeless, sweetheart.”
Josiah’s little face scrunched in confusion. “What does that mean?”
“It means he doesn’t have a home,” I explained softly. “And he might not have food either.”
That was all it took. Before I could stop him, Josiah slid out of his seat, ran straight to the door, and waved the man inside like he was greeting an old friend.
“You don’t have a home? You can eat with us!” he said, beaming.
The entire restaurant fell silent. Conversations stopped. People turned to watch, waiting to see what would happen next.
The man hesitated, looking down at his worn-out shoes. His eyes, weary and unsure, flickered with something I couldn’t quite place—perhaps disbelief, perhaps hope.
I smiled and nodded. “Please, let us get you a meal.”
He slowly stepped inside, and as he took a seat at our table, the waitress approached hesitantly. Before she could even ask for his order, Josiah clapped his hands together and announced, “Get him the biggest burger we have!”
The man chuckled softly, the first trace of a smile breaking through the tiredness on his face. But what happened next broke me.
Just as the waitress placed the steaming plate of food in front of him, Josiah reached out and grabbed the man’s hand.
“Wait! We gotta pray first!” he said earnestly.
And right there, in the middle of a crowded Waffle House, my little boy bowed his head and began to pray. Not a hurried, quiet prayer, but a full-hearted, innocent prayer of gratitude and love.
“God, thank you for my new friend. I hope he never goes hungry again. And I hope he knows we love him. Amen.”
The restaurant remained silent, but it wasn’t just the absence of noise—it was the presence of something deeper, something sacred.
When Josiah lifted his head, I noticed tears in the eyes of the waitress, the cook behind the counter, and even a few customers who had overheard. One woman dabbed at her cheeks with a napkin. Another man quietly pushed his plate toward the edge of the table, as if suddenly reminded of how blessed he was.
The man squeezed Josiah’s tiny hand and whispered, “Thank you.” His voice cracked.
That night, I learned something profound—kindness is not measured by age, wealth, or ability. It’s in the smallest gestures, the simplest words, the purest hearts.
Josiah didn’t see a homeless man. He saw a friend who needed a meal. And in that moment, my 5-year-old son reminded an entire restaurant what true compassion looks like.
And maybe, just maybe, he reminded us all of the power of love.
