At our office, Paul was the kind of guy who blended into the background — quiet, polite, and predictable. Every day at lunch, he unwrapped the same plain sandwich. We joked about it sometimes, and he’d just smile that small, knowing smile of his.
When he handed in his resignation, I offered to help him clear out his desk. That’s when I found the stack of children’s drawings: crooked hearts, stick figures, and crayon-scrawled notes that read, “Thank you, Mr. Paul.” One picture showed a man passing out sandwiches to a line of kids.
Paul never talked about having children. Curiosity finally got the best of me, and when I asked him, he simply said,
“Go to the West End Library around 6 p.m. You’ll understand.”
A few days later, I went.
There he was, standing quietly by the side entrance with a cooler and a stack of brown paper bags. About fifteen kids — some homeless, some just overlooked — waited patiently as he handed each of them a sandwich and a few gentle words.
“Most of them don’t get dinner,” he told me. “I just want to make sure they get at least one meal.”
Suddenly, those “boring” sandwiches he brought to work made sense — they were practice for the ones he made for the kids. PB&J, simple and consistent.
“Some of them say it’s the best part of their day,” he said, almost embarrassed by the attention.
I started helping him afterward. One morning, while we were spreading peanut butter across rows of bread, he told me he grew up in foster care — hungry more often than not.
“I know what it’s like to feel invisible,” he said quietly.
Then one week, he didn’t show up. Paul had collapsed from exhaustion. When I visited him in the hospital, his only worry was the kids.
“Can you keep it going until I’m back?” he asked.
I promised.
Before long, coworkers joined in. “Sandwich Fridays” became a ritual. And when Paul recovered, he turned his small act of kindness into something bigger — a nonprofit called One Meal Ahead.
Some of the kids he once fed are adults now. They still remember him.
Paul never wanted applause. He never asked for recognition. He just showed up — one sandwich, one child, one quiet act of compassion at a time.
And he proved something simple: sometimes the smallest gesture can change a life.