10 Moments of Kindness and Compassion That Prove Generosity Never Goes Out of Style

My 20-year-old daughter, Emily, drove back to college alone on a Sunday night, heading to school in Peru, Indiana. An hour into the drive, she called me crying: “Mom, a truck is following me.” Before I could say anything else, the call dropped, her signal must have cut out somewhere on the backroads. I tried calling back twice, and it went straight to voicemail both times. Then my phone rang again, a number I didn’t recognize. My heart raced when a man said, “I’m right behind your daughter. You need to call her and tell her to stop.” My stomach dropped. I thought the worst. But then he explained he wasn’t following her. He’d been trying to warn her that her tire was almost flat. He got my number from the sticker on the back of her car that said, “Call my mom if there’s a problem.” He assumed it was an emergency contact. Emily had noticed the truck behind her and panicked, but she didn’t realize he was trying to help. She was scared because she was alone at night, and he understood why she didn’t want to pull over. After she finally stopped at a gas station just outside town, he stayed nearby until she was okay. His name was Dale, she told me later. The stranger she feared was the person who made sure she got home safely.

My bank stopped my card over an updated policy where I had to verify my age, but they were meant to send me a warning and didn’t. I went to get fuel for my car, filled the tank up full, went to pay, and it was declined. I had no other money and was about to have to write a form saying I’ll come back and pay when a man behind me saw he insisted he would pay for it, and before I could even answer, he tapped his card and wanted nothing in return. This experience was a refreshing act of generosity that reminded me there are still kind people out there!

So I work the night shift at a 24-hour diner just off the interstate in Wamsutter, Wyoming, and most of our regulars are truckers or insomniacs. One older man (his name was Walt, I’d later learn) came in every night for three years, always sitting at the same booth, ordering the same sandwich and staying for exactly two hours, no less, no more. But most importantly, he was always alone. There was a kind of loneliness in the way he ate exactly the same meal, at the same time, every single night. One night he didn’t show up, but I didn’t think much of it until a week later, when a woman I’d never seen walked in, sat in his booth, and ordered his exact usual without looking at the menu. I asked if she knew him. “He was my father,” she said. “He came here every night because it was the last place he saw my mother alive, before the accident. He never told any of us why he kept coming back here alone.” She paused, looking around the diner like she was seeing it through his eyes for the first time. “He passed away peacefully last week, but he asked me to come sit in his booth once, so it wouldn’t feel so empty.” I still keep his booth open for the first two hours of every shift, just in case; it’s the least I can do, a small act of compassion for a man who never asked for much.

Overall, this has been a really tough year with losses and health conditions with close family and friends. But there have also been some really great moments. One of my family members is experiencing a pretty severe medical issue and one of my bosses came to me this week and offered me his airline miles if I needed them to go be with them. I thought that was incredibly kind, but not overly surprising since they are very generous with me and everyone else on the staff.

I had a stroke a couple of years ago and was dealing with serious mental health struggles and confusion during recovery. My insurance company would routinely strand me for doctor visits. After one doctor visit, I waited 9 hours for them to pick me up until my phone was off. I was lucky that I found an all-night readycare across the street. I was absolutely out of my mind without a way to get home 30 miles away. The doctor and staff actually paid for my ride home and fed me pizza and water. I still send them presents every year since then

My son has severe autism, and most flights are a nightmare of stares and whispered comments from other passengers. On one particular flight, right as he started melting down mid-air, the man next to us calmly pulled out a deck of cards and started building a house of cards on his tray table, completely unbothered, like nothing was happening around him. My son stopped crying almost instantly, completely mesmerized by what he was doing. They built cards together for the rest of the flight in complete silence; as we landed, the man finally spoke for the first time, telling me, “My brother was on the spectrum too. I know what those looks feel like.” Then he shook my son’s hand like he was closing an important business deal, and disappeared into the crowd before I could even get his name. I think my son will never forget that man; neither will I.

It was my first year of uni. I moved out of home at age 17 to go to school in a different city, living alone and legit don’t know anyone, that particular kind of loneliness hits harder than people expect. One day, I lost my bus pass... and didn’t have my wallet with me that day and basically panicked, crying at a bus stop for losing my bus pass and basically not knowing what to do (also have anxiety), so I couldn’t think straight. This lady saw me crying, hugged me, and asked me what was wrong, and me answering while balling my eyes out, that I didn’t have any cash to get on the bus and I was new to the city. She basically gave me a 10-dollar bill, told me that everything would be okay, that I can get through this, and gave me such a warm smile. I’m in my fourth year now, and that was the kindest thing I’ve ever experienced because I was just in so much stress from moving to a different city and environment. That lady was a blessing.

When I was homeless, this random lady took my cat and me into her house; I’ll never forget. She cooked me meals that were so good, I was like a part of her family. I played with her son and their dog. It was a short stay, but I’ll remember it forever. I owe her something. I hope I find her again one day. I want to give her money or something, or show her what I’ve done in my life that’s impactful, so that she didn’t help me for nothing. She is very kind.

I’ll never forget what happened to me once. I was driving through rural Missouri, almost midnight, heading back to my motel along a county road just outside Licking. Ahead of me, car after car passed by an elderly woman standing on the shoulder, two suitcases beside her, arm raised, hitchhiking. Nobody stopped, but I decided to pull over. “My phone’s battery is off. I missed the last bus,” she said, barely looking at me. “Could you take me home?” I let her in. Her name was Dorothy, she told me as she got in. She sat in silence for most of the ride, checking her bag every few minutes as if to make sure something was still there. When I asked where exactly she lived, she just pointed. “Left here. Now right.” The streets got darker and narrower, and the houses got fewer and farther apart. Just as I started to feel uneasy, she suddenly said, “Stop. Right here.” I looked around, but there were no houses, no lights, nothing but a wooden fence in front of us. “This isn’t your house, is it?” I said it more as a statement than a question. She turned slowly to face me. “No. I tricked you a little,” she admitted. “I don’t live anywhere near here.” Before I could react, she explained quickly. “There’s a colony of stray cats behind this fence. I’ve fed them every night for two years, since my husband passed. The suitcases aren’t for a trip; they’re how I carry the food and water out here without anyone asking questions.” She said she always timed the last bus so she’d have just enough light to feed them before walking back to the stop. The suitcases weren’t just for food and water for the cats; tucked in one of the side pockets, she always kept a couple of jars of homemade fig jam too, “just in case someone kind enough ever stopped for me,” she admitted with a small laugh. But if she missed the bus (like that night), she had no way back except the roadside, hoping a stranger would stop. “I was hoping whoever stopped might wait twenty minutes,” she said, looking toward the fence, “and then actually take me home after. That part wasn’t a trick.” I waited. Cats emerged one by one from the dark as she called to them, refilling bowls hidden along the fence line. Twenty minutes later, suitcases empty, she got back in the car and gave me her real address; it was a small house on the other side of town. Before I left, she reached into that same side pocket and pressed one of the jars into my hands. “For the next stranger who stops for you,” she said (one last, quiet act of generosity from a woman who had almost nothing to spare), smiling for the first time all night, and I still have that jar.