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A Stranger’s Kindness
By R.M. Pearce
This man lived years before me, and I don’t believe
I have ever met him physically. However, he left me
pages and pages of words. Wise words. Painful words.
Hard words. I know it’s silly, but despite being a
writer, I’m not much of a reader. I read textbooks
to learn and peruse news for current information, but
I don’t read for pleasure. I create excuses, “I hardly
have enough time in the day” or “If only I had more
free time and worked less, then I could read.” That’s
a joke. A cold, hard, ironic joke. A writer that never
reads, yet the words of one man changed my life.
I try to read a little each day of the words he left
me. A page or two here and there. Wise words need
to sit. They need to simmer in your heart. They need
time to change your mind completely. I’m afraid that
I’m too stubborn sometimes. This stranger saved my
life and yet I refuse to listen to his insights. I might
even try to find reasons not to listen.
Words. They can create worlds and destroy them. They
can change a man’s heart or break it. They provide
the discerning with endless wealth yet lead others to
ruin. Words have power.
Not all liked his words. Many ridiculed him or called
him a liar. Would it surprise you to know that my hero
didn’t have a perfect record? He was arrested. He
was charged with various crimes. When asked if he
was guilty, he remained silent. I don’t believe he was
guilty of the things they said. Many of their stories
contradicted one another. His accusers spat at him
with venom and vile obscenities. He remained still.
They wanted him gone. He walked towards them —
into danger. They hated how his words challenged
their behaviors and refused to open their eyes to
change. He wanted to help. They wanted him dead.
He was a storyteller and teacher. He often used both
of these talents in his speeches — the same words
that were written down and left for me. He once talk-
ed of a man that was attacked when traveling and
robbed of all he was carrying. The traveler cried out
for help, but many purposely avoided him or ignored his
pleas and kept walking. I often ask myself if I would
be one of those people. In fact, I almost know I would
be.
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I was on the side of the road of life. Crying out for
All my life, I’ve been taught not to associate with the
homeless or strangers. Perhaps it is wise advice, but
on the other hand, they are people that are hurting
just like the traveling man. They ask for help and we
pass them by. My heart pangs with a desire to help
as I often stare in a different direction and travel
past. I want to stop and ask them how I can be
of assistance. I want to look them in their eyes and
connect with them person-to-person. I want to know
their story. Everyone deserves to have their story
heard and not forgotten. I pass them by. I don’t say
a word. I don’t ask a question. I don’t help.
In 2015, I began testing those fears and provided
money to those alongside stoplight intersections. It
felt good, like I was helping — for a short time. Some-
where around 2016, I moved to California and was
walking alongside a group of friends at Venice Beach.
I was new to the area and open to learning about my
surroundings. One of my friends had finished most of
his Starbucks coffee as we were exploring the various
sights. Suddenly, a weak voice called out from one of
the open avenues and asked for the remainder of the
coffee. The cup was practically empty, and the dregs
swirled near the bottom. My friend refused and kept
on walking. After a short distance, I asked why he
chose to do so. He had practically finished the drink and
the man was asking for the final drops as if begging
for scraps. Both friends exchanged stories of how beg-
gars in the area would often call out to kind strangers
and stab them as they drew near before taking their
things. My heart hardened in an instant. How can one
help those like the traveler, when they may become
the traveler— beaten and violated?
I’ve often ruminated on my friends’ stories and
questioned their validity. I truly believe that horrible
things like these happen. I’ve grown up believing sim-
ilar lessons instilled in me from a young age. But if we
follow these guidelines, how can we change the world?
How do we not simply pass by everyone in need? It’s
self-preservation or so I tell myself.
The man that saved my life would say otherwise. In
his tale, the wounded traveler was dying on the side of
the road when a stranger picked him up, brought him
into town, and paid all expenses to restore the man’s
health. We’ve all heard this story, but I was this man.
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Perhaps many will hate my words, too. Those enraged
help. Dying. Passed by. Would you stop and help?
Despite all of the angered people that violently at-
tacked my hero, he persisted and lived. It was before
I was born that I contracted an illness. A sickness
that would eventually take my life if not for a com-
plete transfusion. Someone’s blood for mine. The man
of my story practiced what he taught and knew this
was the only way to disprove those that despised him.
I needed a cure. This stranger entered my life and
offered his blood. The transfusion began.
A transfusion for someone of my small size was easy
in theory but held major ramifications. The doctors
couldn’t sterilize the deadly agents in my blood, nor
could they complete a clean transfusion. They were
powerless. They were human. All anyone could do is
wait and watch.
Not long after, the man writhed in agony as the mur-
derous parasites that had once meant death for me
were attacking his frail body. I had cried out for help,
wounded and alone. Just like the stranger that paid
all expenses to restore the traveler’s health, my hero
paid a costly price to heal me. I was cured. I would
live!
The man, my hero, would not. He died before I entered
this world.
I read his words and doubt settles in my heart. I
question if I can ever live up to his example. I owe
him my life and my future. I wouldn’t be here today
without him. I want to say thank you. I want to
wrap my arms around him and give him the strongest
hug I can muster. I want to make my hero proud of
his incredible sacrifice.
Today, I follow in his footsteps. I am working to
become a storyteller and teacher. I studied screen-
writing and creative writing in college. I’ve written
for various publications and I’m currently working on a
number of different novels. For the past three years,
I have worked as a substitute teacher in the pro-
gression of finally securing a full teaching certificate. I
can’t say that these choices were intentional. I can’t
help being a storyteller and teacher. There’s some-
thing within me that pulls me to these subjects. I
want to encourage people to live a better life. I want
to provide answers and not cause problems. I want to
help people.
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with my choices might accuse me of terrible things
out of spite. Others might even seek to take my life.
I hope not, but I am reminded of a man. A man, that
despite all of the vitriol and lies thrown at him, kept
pursuing his mission of kindness and love. A man that
changed so many lives with his words. A man that
saved my life.
If my life reflects this man in anyway, I will consider
it a life well-lived.
I must practice what I teach. My actions must re-
flect my words. I hope to help those in need. I want
to hear others’ stories. I want to save a life.
The stranger may have given his life for mine, but
he lives on in me. His mission is still very much alive.
Like I said, I can’t give the details of my story, but
they’re out there to find. Simple words left to encour-
age. I did not write them, nor did I choose my story.
It was written before I was born. The story of how
my life was saved by the kindness of a stranger.
Words. They can create worlds and destroy them. They
can change a man’s heart or break it. They provide
the discerning with endless wealth yet lead others to
ruin. Words have power.
My words will tell the story of my hero — the man
that saved my life.
R.M. Pearce is a writer, teacher, and publicist in
Kansas City, Missouri. Pearce’s past publications can
be found in Silicon Beach Magazine, Victorious, and
Shorelines Art Magazine. In addition, Pearce is work-
ing on numerous novels and has published a novella,
The Monsters Within. R.M. Pearce hopes to com-
bine teaching with the love of the written word and
encourage excitement for creative writing through
entertainment.
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