At work we teased Paul for always eating the same plain PB&J sandwich, no drink, no snacks. Quiet guy, kept to himself, zero personal stories.
When he quit, I helped clear his desk and found a thick stack of children’s drawings rubber-banded together: crayon hearts, shaky “Thank you Mr. Paul” notes, stick figures receiving sandwiches. Some kids had drawn tears.
I asked what they were. He just said, “Come to West End Library around 6 p.m. sometime.”
I went. There was Paul in his brown jacket, handing out brown paper bags to a silent line of street kids. Fifteen of them. Same sandwich every day, made with his own money, because most of them didn’t have dinner waiting at home, and some didn’t have homes.
He’d grown up in foster care himself, often hungry. This was how he fed the kid he used to be.
One day he collapsed (heart issue). I was the only emergency contact he had. While he recovered, I kept the lunches going. Then the whole office found out and joined in. Sandwich Fridays became a thing.
Paul never returned to the desk job. He started a tiny non-profit called “One Meal Ahead” and does this full-time now.
We all mocked the quiet guy with the boring sandwich.
Turns out he was the biggest hero in the building.
Never judge someone’s life by what they bring for lunch. Sometimes the plainest sandwich is a lifeline, and the quietest person is the loudest force of good you’ll ever meet.
