I went to run errands in town on a typical winter day, but it was colder than the day before. I offered to help a young man who was having difficulties.

I received an unexpected present as a result of my efforts that permanently altered my course in life.

It was one of those sour January afternoons when the cold bites at your face as if you’d offended it, seeping into all of your layers, including your bones.

I had just finished running errands when I decided to stop and appreciate what I had. I had no idea I was going to be someone else’s blessing.

I chose to enter St. Peter’s Church for a few quiet moments of contemplation after I had just done grocery shopping and picking up my husband’s dry washing.

I can’t even recall what prompted me to pause there; perhaps it was a yearning for quiet, a respite from the bustle of my daily existence.

I saw him seated at the base of the steps as I approached the stone door.

The man appeared to be in his thirties. His head was exposed to the chilly breeze, his coat was worn, and his red and stiff fingers tugged in vain at his crumbling shoes. It wasn’t simply that they were worn; the soles were clinging to one another with improvised twine.

I paused. There’s something about witnessing misery that makes you question intervening, and I’m not proud of that particular moment. What if he poses a threat? What if he refuses my assistance?

Then he raised his head.

I was halted in my tracks by his deep, brown, and hollow eyes, despite his emaciated and wind-chapped visage. He had the air of someone who would shatter with just one more terrible day.

Despite my doubts and my best efforts, I was unable to walk by. There was something about him that moved me and held me there. The freezing stone sliced through my jeans as I knelt next to him, my knees protesting.

“Hi there,” I murmured. “Please let me help with those shoes.”

His eyes were bloodshot, red, and exhausted, but there was still a glimmer of hope in them as he blinked at me. “You don’t have to —” he said, startled, as though he wasn’t used to anyone recognizing him at all.

“Let me,” I interrupted, gently but firmly. I took off my gloves and set my backpack down next to me. The cold instantly made my fingertips sting, but it made no difference. I attempted to secure his shoe more firmly after untying the twisted rope that held it together.

He watched me silently while I worked, and I couldn’t tell if he was grateful or incredulous. I took the shawl from my shoulders when I was done. My husband Ben gave me a thick gray knit years ago, and it was my favorite.

After a brief moment of hesitation, I draped it over his shoulders. “This is it. This will be beneficial.”

He opened his mouth slightly, as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the right words. I wasn’t finished.

I said to him, “Wait here,” Before he could object, I sprinted across the street to a small café on a corner and purchased tea and the biggest cup of hot soup they had. His hands were shaking when he took it when I got back.

I reached into my bag for a pen and a piece of paper, wrote down my address, and put it into his hand.

“If you ever need a place to stay,” I replied quietly, “or someone to talk to — come find me.”

His brow furrowed as he gazed at the paper. “Why?” he said in a raspy voice. “Why are you doing this?”

My response was, “Because everyone needs someone,” “And right now, you need someone.”

Before he softly nodded and turned back to the steaming cup of soup in his hands, his eyes glowed for a moment. “Thank you,” he said in a whisper.

Despite my deep want to stay, I left him there. Just to see him again, I glanced over my shoulder once on my way back to my car. His shoulders were bent over the breeze as he sipped the soup carefully. I never imagined seeing him again, and I never even asked for his name.

Ten years went by. Life continued as usual, with jobs, friends, family, routines, and occasional bursts of happiness and sorrow. I had celebrated twenty-two years of marriage with my husband. Our daughter was on the verge of graduating from high school, and our children, Emily and Caleb, were already teenagers.

At fourteen, Caleb was deeply engrossed in the world of sarcasm. Like other families, it was a busy and hectic life. The knock on the door occurred on a Tuesday evening. Caleb yelled about losing his video game upstairs as I sat in the living room drinking tea and looking over invoices.

I froze when I opened the door.

On the porch stood a policeman with a somber expression and a spotless outfit. My heart pounded with excitement! My kids were the first thing that came to mind. Was there an incident at school? A mishap?

“Good evening, ma’am,” exclaimed the cop. “Are you Anna?”

“Yes, is something the matter?” I succeeded. My voice faltered as I ran through all the worst-case scenarios in my head.

He produced a picture from his pocket and extended it to me. “Have you seen this man, ma’am?”

I looked at the picture and scowled. It was a little twisted and blurry, but I understood right away. He was the one. From the church steps, the man. Everything was there: the shoes, the scarf. I could still clearly recall him ten years later!

“Yes,” I answered, my voice barely audible above a whisper. “Who… who is he?”

At that moment, the officer gave a kind, gentle smile. He said, “Ma’am,” “it’s me.”

“You?” I muttered.

His voice was full of emotion as he nodded. “You saved me that day.”

With my head spinning, I supported myself by leaning against the doorframe. “How did you fare?” “After church?”

His hands clasped together as if he were holding onto something delicate as he exhaled slowly. “I sat there for a while after you went. I guess I was simply shocked that someone had actually noticed me. You offered me hope, not just a scarf or some soup.”

His comments weighed heavily on me, and I swallowed hard. “But how did you—how did you turn things around?”

He gave a small smile. “That document you handed me? The one that has your address on it? I saved it even though I didn’t visit your home at the time. I asked the pastor of that church to take a picture of me just the way I was. I wanted a photo from my time of homelessness to assist you remember when I eventually tried to locate you.”

“The pastor also assisted me in contacting my aunt, who was the only remaining member of my family,” he added. From his phone, he sent her the picture. She believed me dead because she was so horrified.

“I spent years without a home. I was twenty years old when my mother died. My father brought a new woman into the house after she passed away.” He clarified, “My stepmother wasn’t mean, but she wasn’t my mom, and I couldn’t cope with it.”

“I thought I could survive on my own when I left home, but things didn’t work out that way. I soon found myself on the streets after finding a job, but it was never enough to cover my rent. My hands were so cold that day at the chapel that I was unable to even put on my shoes correctly. Then you appeared.”

“It felt like my late mother was encouraging me to keep going when you offered me your address, that soup, and tea, as well as assistance with my shoes. I decided to call my aunt since that moment provided me the motivation I needed.”

He cleared his throat as his voice wavered. “She took me in.” It wasn’t simple. I had to overcome my addiction, get a job, and get an ID. But as a reminder, I kept this picture and your address in my wallet. I didn’t want to disappoint you.

I was unable to talk. I had tears in my eyes and a tight throat.

He went on to say, “I worked my way up.” “I finally submitted an application to the police academy. I wanted to thank you, so I found you after I graduated six years ago.”

“Thank me?” I suffocated. “I didn’t do anything.”

His eyes were hard but gentle as he shook his head. “You underestimated how much you did. When I felt invisible, you saw me. I have something to fight for because of you.”

The chilly air cut my cheeks as we stood there, but I was oblivious to it. He smiled and extended his hand for a handshake, but I moved forward and put my arms around him, and he gave me a hug in return, much like a son would give his mother.

“Thank you,” he said in a whisper.

Finally, I managed a wobbly laugh as I pushed away. “Do you still have the scarf?”

He smiled, a genuine, bright smile. “I do. I have it in my home drawer. I will always have it.”

We chuckled quietly, and I became aware that my tears had overflowed. I remarked, “You’ve come so far,”

“I wouldn’t have without you,” was his straightforward response.

I sat in my living room that evening, clutching the picture he had left me. Ben was sitting next to me, his fingers around mine, while I told him everything—the church, the soup, the address I’d scrawled all those years ago. He had come back after working late with our daughter, who had additional lessons.

“It’s incredible,” my spouse muttered. “You gave him a second chance.”

I gave a headshake. “No. He handed it to himself. I simply kept the door open.”

Looking at the picture once more, I couldn’t help but wonder how many other people were waiting for someone to see them while sitting on chilly steps and feeling invisible.

I promised myself that I would help the next homeless person I saw in whatever small way I could.

Sometimes all you need is a scarf, some soup, and a few encouraging words. And occasionally, those little moments have a bigger impact than you could have ever thought.