[ WP ] a homeless man sits on the street . You watch as a group of thugs take his change up and kick him hard in the face . As they leave , you decide to go talk to him . Make me feel something .

I sat waiting at the bus stop as I did every day and sitting across the street same as all the other days, he sat. An older man, bearded and wearing the same dirty layers he wore the first time I'd seen him nearly a month ago. 
 
 Most days I'd roll my eyes at the sight of him, rattling that cup of money around, begging. *Why do n't you just get a job? * I'd think at him. *There are shelters if you're desperate, you're just not willing to try. * 
 
 Occasionally I would wonder what his story was, wonder if I was judging him too quickly but before I could give it much thought, my bus would arrive and I'd be on my way to classes for the day. 
 
 Today, something happened. 
 
 A group of guys walk over to him and start taunting him, calling him names. I can see my bus coming a few streets away, and am glad that I'll be out of here soon. I try to avoid looking in the direction of the action, but inevitably I end up looking back to watch. Humans are so weird the way we ca n't seem to look away from a train wreck situation. 
 
 Just as my bus is pulling up to the stop in front of me, I watch the thugs snatch away the cup of change from the homeless man's hand and kick him square in the face. I jump, hand flying to my mouth as the bus blocks my view. Without thinking, I jump to my feet and run right around the bus and, carefully checking for oncoming traffic, cross the street. 
 
 Laying on his side is the man, holding his bleeding face while the men hurry away from him, laughing. I take out a handkerchief from my pocket and offer it to him. Graciously he takes it from my hands, dabbing at his nose and behind us the bus drives off. If I make it to class today, I'll be very late. 
 
 As my attention gives itself fully to the man, I hear myself saying `` I'm so sorry.'' Thought I'm not really sure why I'm apologizing. He does n't respond, a look of defeat in his eyes. `` Can I take you to get something to eat?'' I offer. He does n't give me much of an answer, but I decide that if he does n't refuse I'll take him. I help pull him to his feet and walk at a slow pace with him to the mcdonalds a few blocks ahead. 
 
 I sit down with him in a booth for a moment, he's still wearing that same look of defeat. I want to encourage him somehow but I find myself at a loss for words. I've never been in his shoes, in fact I do n't even know *what* his story really is. Before I can even think it over, those are the next words finding their way out of my mouth. 
 
 `` What's your story?'' He looks up at me and as our eyes meet I can see a life behind his. A long and hard life. His face is worn and his hands are weak and as he begins telling his story, my imagination runs wild with the images he paints with his words. 
 
 He tells me about his life, the years of hard work, his happiest moments and his worst. How he lost everything, and the way it broke him. He tells me about the homeless shelter he worked while he himself slept under it's roof and about the young folks he taught to work even when age prevented him to be accepted for the positions he helped them excel in. I sit across from this man, fascinated by the history in his words, the life he's lived and the places marked with his footprints. But the end of his story broke my heart more than I thought a strangers words ever could. 
 
 `` I'm dying.'' He said with unsteady breath. `` I'm dying and I just hoped... that I could do something with my last days. I'm old and worn and ca n't work anymore, but I can sit. That money was going to go to a charity to help people in need. I did n't even pick a charity, but I planned on figuring it out once I had enough to donate. I wanted it to be my final act of kindness. But now...'' His eyes filled with tears. I moved to sit in the space beside him on the booth and wrapped my arm around him. I did n't speak, I just sat with him. 
 
 
 That was two years ago. The old man has been gone for a year and a half but his story still weighs on my heart. I donate every month to charities around the world under his name, even when it means I eat the same peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a week. Bernard Washburne may have died with only my hand holding his, but I hope to make his heart something everyone thinks about when they hear his name. I hope to spread his story to many corners of the world, so that people will join hands in his memory. The world is full of terrible people and terrible things, which is exactly why a story like his is vital. To show that no matter how brutally life beats you down you can always inspire people. I think that's a mindset everyone in the world could benefit from practicing.
