There was a quiet guy at work named Paul who brought the same plain sandwich every day. We teased him about it, and he always just smiled.
When he quit, I helped him clean his desk — and found a stack of children’s drawings: hearts, stick figures, and notes that said, “Thank you, Mr. Paul.” One picture showed a man handing out sandwiches to kids in a line. Paul never mentioned having kids, so I asked him about it. All he said was, “Go to the West End Library around 6 p.m. You’ll understand.”
A few days later, I went. There he was, standing by the side entrance with a cooler and brown lunch bags. About fifteen kids — some homeless — waited quietly as he handed each a sandwich and a few kind words. “Most of them don’t get dinner,” he told me. “I just make sure they get one meal.” His “boring” sandwiches weren’t for him —
