A gas station. Rural east Texas. A young man sits in front of the ice machine, and he’s babbling nonsense. He is shirtless. He is dirty. People pass him as they walk into the convenience store.

But one old man doesn’t.

Because this old man has been homeless before. He knows what’s going on. The old man knows that about 30 percent of homeless persons are mentally ill. He knows that 30 percent are addicted. He knows this kid is probably blitzed out of his gourd on a substance.

The old man knows all this because he was once that guy.

The old man makes a few calls. In a few minutes an Episcopal priest and a few other church members are standing before the young shirtless man. They are asking him if he has anywhere to spend the night. They’re offering him a hand.

The young man sees the priest’s collar and he starts to cry.

“Please help me,” the kid sobs. “I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

Within minutes, the kid is taken to the hospital. An anonymous donor pays for him to visit rehab. The kid is clean within a month. That was 15 years ago.

Today, the kid is an employee at the same rehab that saved him.

Cincinnati. Her family moved to this town for work. After a year, she learned her husband was having an affair. Her competition was a 22-year-old. She caught them in the act. And she almost had a nervous breakdown.

After the divorce, she never thought she would love again. So she raised kids on her own. She got a job working at K-Mart. She disappeared into the throngs of working-class Americans.

Until she met Ron. Ron was a widower with three kids of his own. He worked in the stock room. He was cute. One day, he worked up the nerve to ask her out. He asked her to go rollerskating for a first date.

“Huh?” she said.

“Well,” said Ron. “Every Saturday, I take my kids rollerskating.”

So—why not?—she went rollerskating. When the DJ played “Too Much Heaven,” Ron asked her to couple-skate. The rest is history. They have been married for 30 years.

Now let’s go to Atlanta. A young man, who we’ll call Brent, worked in a small used auto dealership. One day the doctor found something on his skin. The doc had it checked out. It was cancer. The bad kind.

Brent was going to die. That’s what the professionals said. The cancer had probably already metastasized.

Enter Caroline. Caroline was Brent’s coworker. She started an email prayer chain. “Prayers for Brent” was the subject line of her emails. She had people praying far and wide.

“I even had folks praying in Russia, Italy, and Saudi Arabia,” Caroline said.

Brent’s next checkup was looming, just around the corner. He had no idea that Caroline had started an email prayer chain.

Before Brent’s appointment, Caroline sent an email to the prayer chain, informing everyone that Brent’s follow-up appointment was on Monday.

People came from all over to be there.

Brent showed up to his appointment that morning, and was amazed to see the lobby of the medical office was teeming with strangers. Some held signs that read “We Love You Brent!”

He had no idea what was going on, then someone told him about the prayer chain.

But wait. It gets better.

Brent went to his appointment, and the doctor could not believe the scans. They could not find a trace of cancer on Brent’s body. Brent was all clear.

Brent entered the lobby to a cheering crowd.

And if all this sounds like a Hallmark B.S. to you, I don’t blame you. There was a time in my life when I would have agreed wholeheartedly. Life is a puke sandwich. Eat it or starve. Miracles are only true in a Spielberg world. That was my philosophy.

But then I met you. You started emailing me stories. Your stories. The stories come by the metric ton. I receive them every day. I have received these tales each day for the last decade. Stories of miracles. Of wonderful moments.

And each time I begin to doubt the goodness of this universe, I read your emails. And something happens to me. I think about things. Big things.

I think, often, about a man who used to sit in front of an ice machine in rural Texas. And I think of the words he recently sent to me.

“A long time ago I thought this world was pure $#*%, man. But you know what? I’m glad I was wrong.”

Hear, hear.