The following story is true, sent in via email by a man named Gale.

The mid-80s. Detroit. The boy didn’t have much. He was one of those teens most people won’t notice.

Each day, he walked to and from school with a ratty backpack on his shoulders, containing a pitiful lunch he made himself, since he had no mother to prepare meals.

He had no father, either. The boy was raised by his aunt, who spent her life in the arms of some guy she met at a bar, or lost at the bottom of a bottle.

His aunt’s life was such a mess she couldn’t even remember to do the grocery shopping regularly. So the boy got pretty good at buying groceries.

Truth told, he actually liked grocery shopping. The supermarket was his jam. He loved the clean, crisp aisles, with food piled high on shelves. He loved the water-sprinklers, misting vegetables in the produce department. He loved the elevator music.

Today, he was exiting the store with an armful of groceries when he was met by an older man, standing outside the supermarket, asking for handouts.

The young man’s heart was pricked when he saw the man. He offered the man his sack of groceries.

The grocery bag was full of peanut butter, jelly, frozen French fries, a gallon of two-percent, Frosted Flakes, and other odds and ends. This was supposed to last the boy for an entire week.

The man smiled his tooth at the kid. There was something wet in his eyes. “God bless you, son.”

The kid flashed a return smile, one with a little pain behind it. That was HIS food. He walked home empty handed.

The following week was pretty tough. It’s hard to function when you’re hungry. Hard to fall asleep, too. Digestive acids start to hurt your stomach. Mostly, you just lie in bed, thinking about sandwiches.

The boy ate free school lunches, of course, but they weren’t enough. He nodded off in class, weak from malnutrition. Teachers would wake him up and send him to the school nurse, who fed him snacks in her office. But candy bars do not a meal make.

A few weeks later, the boy was at the supermarket again. His aunt had gotten her paycheck and sent him for groceries. The boy could hardly wait. His stomach was gurgling when he arrived.

But when approached the market, he saw the old man standing by the door again.

The boy braced himself for the man to ask for another handout. But the man didn’t. Instead the man’s face lit up.

He asked the boy if he had a moment to spare.

“Um, sure,” said the kid. “I have some time.”

The man led the boy to the alley behind the store, where a broken down Honda was parked. The boy was nervous. He was wishing he wouldn’t have followed this man into a back alley.

But then the man opened the rear hatch. Inside the Honda were a few cats, a makeshift bed in the backseat, and lots of books. And there were boxes of food in the trunk. Big boxes of food.

Dozens and dozens of boxes filled with canned goods. Dried goods. Candy. Cereals. Everything.

“Some church people gave me this food,” the man said. “It’s too much for me. I’ve been waiting by the front door all week, hoping to see you again so I could give it to you.”

The man followed the kid home in his Honda. He placed the boxes on the porch steps. They shook hands and said goodbye.

And as the wheezing Honda drove away, the kid caught a glimpse of the rear bumper, covered in a quiltwork of bumper stickers. One sticker stood out in particular. Blue text on a white background. It read: PROV 19:17.