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 — he practiced making them for the kids. Peanut butter and jelly, simple and steady. “Some say it’s the best part of their day,” he said.
I started helping him after work. While we made lunches one morning, he told me he grew up in foster care and often went hungry. “I know what it’s like to feel invisible,” he said. Then one week, he didn’t show up. He’d collapsed from exhaustion. At the hospital, he asked me to keep things going until he recovered. I promised.
Soon, coworkers joined in, and “Sandwich Fridays” began. When Paul recovered, he started a nonprofit called One Meal Ahead. Some kids he once fed are grown now; they still remember him. Paul never wanted recognition. He just showed up — one quiet act at a time. And he proved that even something as small as a sandwich can change a life.