It startled me, to see him do this. In all the times I’d been there, I’d never seen anyone do anything like that. Some of them lie to your face and say they haven’t had a meal, or didn’t receive a gift, so they can get another. They hide stuff outside or in their bags, jackets. Sometimes when you go around with the tray of food someone wants more, takes more, and you don’t quite know what to do. Sometimes you feel a little helpless, even cheated; or you feel a little righteous, or guilty, or resigned, or something, because really — it’s hard to judge.

Then sometimes, they all applaud after being served, because the center encourages them to. Sometimes one or two applaud loudly by themselves. Once, a bearded old man knocked on the window of the kitchen, pointed at me and exclaimed, “She’s my all-time favorite!” He gave me the funniest gap-toothed grin and wink. People open doors for us, call out thank-yous. Many times individuals come up to the kitchen and say thanks for the food. From the fuck-yous to the thank-yous, all of these, good and bad, I keep in my heart.

But here was this man, with his bag and cane and light brown coat, collecting everyone else’s garbage. Nobody had asked him to do it. Nobody expected him, or anyone, to do it. Nobody even saw him do it.

Except me.

I saw him, and I knew right then that was someone I wanted to know. I knew I had to find a way to talk to him somehow. To say hi, to say thanks…or even just to get his name.

I wanted to know who this man was, who — despite all he didn’t have compared to the rest of us — still had something left to give.

On our way out I found him. He was standing near the front desk in the room leading out to the street. I stalled behind everyone else and looked at him, smiled. I don’t remember who said what first, just snippets of our brief conversation. The most important parts.

Hey, thanks for coming, Happy New Year. Thank you, Merry Christmas, I hope you enjoyed your meal. I did, what’s your name? My name is Iris, what’s yours? Miles.

I saw you collecting the garbage earlier, that was really nice of you.

I can’t remember everything he said but what stuck with me was this:

We’re given a lot and you do what you can to say thanks.

I think you always gotta try and give back
some of what’s been given to you.

All I could say was,

Everybody should think like you, Miles.

You come here every week? No, we’re here every third Sunday of the month. Well, thank you and God bless you. God bless you, Merry Christmas.

You guys look good, he said, as my brother and I walked out the door.

So do you, I grinned, and I gave him a salute.

He really did. Look good, I mean.

Well, better than good.

I thought he looked like an angel.

I love this man, whoever he is. I don’t know where he’s been, what he’s been through, what he could still be going through. I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again. But at least I know he exists. And because he exists, I love him. People like Miles hold some of the dearest places in my heart. Friends and strangers, who just get it. Miles gets something about life. Something that so many of us, maybe most of us, never quite understand. Something we all tend to forget.

That day, all he had was a bag and a cane and a light brown coat. That day, all we ever gave him was a plate of food. But he still tried to give some of that back. Not later. Not one day. Not someday. He gave that very same moment. He gave that very same day. He did what he could with what he had, though we might say he had so little. Because I like to believe that on some level, maybe he just understood — he still had so much left.

We all have so much left.

Who can say that we are ever useless?

Who can say that we are ever worthless?

For crying out loud: He was a homeless man helping clean up garbage.

Nothing spectacular, grand, news-worthy, or gossip-mag-and-google-ad-click-worthy. Nothing close to what we’d call saving the world, or making a difference in society. But make no mistake: He made an incredible difference to me. And I will remember him, and be praying for him, for the rest of my life.

I don’t care if you think people on the streets are just too lazy to work. Too consumed to care. Too trapped in darkness to even know that there is light. There are people like that everywhere, not just on the streets. I don’t care if you think some people are beyond hope, beyond help, beyond saving. That they’re too selfish, too ignorant, too far gone. Forgotten, broken, damaged, lost. These people aren’t my problem. Can we do something about this problem?

But maybe people aren’t problems, they’re people. And maybe they’re worth a damn more than what they do for you or your bottom line, or even what they can contribute to society in whatever deliverable-measurable-quantifiable data metric you can muster. Yeah, maybe handouts are pointless — but what is the point? Yeah, maybe people should make themselves useful — but useful for what? Is your corporation useful to the world? Does it actually better society, or just the economy? Is your product actually helpful to humans, not just customers or consumers or shareholders or — better yet! — you and your ego? Are your problems really more important than other people’s problems? Than other people?

Maybe charity isn’t economical. Maybe caring isn’t profitable. But it matters. Because we get sick and sad from too much taking: too many quick fixes and cheap thrills, too many stimulants and depressants and anti-depressants, too many mindless shows and movies, shallow content, meaningless relationships. Too many toxic things that only serve to suffocate, to strip us from our senses and deaden our spirits.

Because so much of the time we give only so that we can get more. And that isn’t giving at all. And at the end of the day, a world that doesn’t know how to give — without agendas and expectations and conditions — without giving up control of how it thinks someone should respond, behave, exist — this world, it will never know how to love that way either.

I don’t want to romanticize a man. I know the danger of idealizing a fallible human being. I know that Miles isn’t perfect. I know that this man makes mistakes, that he has hurt and disappointed and wronged others before. Maybe in ways that would surprise me. Maybe in the very same ways I have surprised myself. I cannot judge lest I be judged.

All I know is that for a few seconds in time, he did something so small, yet so pure and good. And yeah, this doesn’t make him pure and good all the time or even most of the time — for none of us are — but it sure as hell makes him one of my heroes. Because you see, he didn’t have to do it at all. And I think that’s the beauty here: Not that he’s perfect. Not that he’s a saint, or a better person than us all. He is no more or less capable of love and generosity than any of us. No, the beauty is that in the midst of all the people who simply take what they can, we’ll catch a glimpse of someone like Miles who gives what he can. Not because he was told to. Not just to people he thought deserved it, people who would appreciate it, appreciate him. Not for the credit or recognition, or to get something back. No. He gave with no prejudice, no expectations. He gave for no reason other than he could, and felt he should.

I wonder how many of us would have done the same.

I hope I would.

When you meet someone like Miles, somehow you feel like maybe everything you’re trying to do for everyone who might not care about what you’re trying to do is still worth it. Because it gives you hope that maybe, if he’s this beautiful, then everyone else can be like that too, even you. Because if you’ve helped one man like this to have a better life, a better day, a better moment, you can’t ever stop trying to help, just in case any little thing you do makes any kind of difference, to anyone. Because as much as you never really know who you end up helping in life, at the same time: you never know who’s going to end up helping you.

So thanks, Miles. For so much more than just cleaning up garbage. But for simply being who you are. For your wisdom. For reminding me of all I have left to give. For doing what you could, though no one ever told you that you should. For walking into my life that one December day, and changing it, forever. You had a peace that many of us blessed with so much more can’t quite seem to find amidst the often empty, tinny chaos of our lives.

I write this though I know that no amount of words could ever do you justice. But I had to try. One day my memory of you might fade, even if the mark you left on my soul will always remain. You see, sir, I write what’s in my heart — and you, my dear Miles, will always be in it.

Mostly though, I think I write because of this:

We’re given a lot and you do what you can to say thanks.

I’m just trying to give back
some of what’s been given to me, too.

All my love,

Iris