(This story was sent to me by a friend, in an email. I believe you’ll find inspiration in its message.)

I am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree.

The last class I had to take was Sociology.

The teacher was absolutely inspiring, with the qualities that I wish every human being had been graced with.

Her last project of the term was called, “Smile.”

The class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions.

I am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway. So, I thought this would be a piece of cake, literally.

Soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and I went out to McDonald’s one crisp March morning.

It was just our way of sharing a special playtime with our son.

We were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then even my husband did.

I did not move an inch. An overwhelming feeling of panic welled up inside of me as I turned to see why they had moved.

As I turned around I smelled a horrible, “dirty body” smell, and there standing behind me were two poor homeless men.

As I looked down at the short gentleman close to me, he was smiling.

His beautiful sky blue eyes were full of God’s Light as he searched for acceptance.

He said “Good day” as he counted the few coins he had been clutching.

The second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend. I realized the second man was mentally challenged and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation.

I held my tears as I stood there with them.

The young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted.

He said “Coffee is all, Miss” because that was all they could afford. If they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something. He just wanted to be warm.

Then I really felt it – the compulsion was so great I almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes.

That is when I noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging my every action.

I smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to give me two more breakfast meals on a separate tray.

I then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot. I put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman’s cold hand.

He looked up at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, “Thank you.”

I leaned over, began to pat his hand, and said, “I did not do this for you. God is here working through me to give you hope.”

I started to cry as I walked away to join my husband and son. When I sat down, my husband smiled at me and said, “That is why God gave you to me, Honey, to give me hope.”

We held hands for a moment and, at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given were we able to give.

We are not church goers, but we are believers.

That day showed me the pure Light of God’s sweet love.

I returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand.

I turned in “my project” and the instructor read it.

Then she looked up at me and said, “Can I share this?”

I slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class.

She began to read and that is when I knew that we as human beings, and being part of God, share this need to heal people and to be healed.

In my own way I had touched the people at McDonald’s, my son, my instructor, and every soul that shared the classroom on the last night I spent as a college student. I graduated with one of the biggest lessons I would ever learn: UNCONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE.

Much love and compassion is sent to each and every person who may read this and learn how to LOVE PEOPLE AND USE THINGS, NOT LOVE THINGS AND USE PEOPLE.

An Angel wrote:

Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.

To handle yourself, use your head. To handle others, use your heart.

God Gives every bird it’s food, but He does not throw it into its nest.

It was fifty years ago, on a hot summer day, in the deep South. We lived on a dirt road, on a sand lot. We were what was known as “dirt poor”. I had been playing outside all morning in the sand.

Suddenly I heard a sharp clanking sound behind me, and, looking over my shoulder, my eyes were drawn to a strange sight! Across the dirt road were two rows of men, dressed in black and white striped baggy uniforms. Their faces were covered with dust and sweat. They looked so weary, and they were chained together with huge black iron chains. Hanging from the end of each chained row was a big, black, iron ball. They were, as polite people said in those days, a “Chain Gang,” guarded by two heavily armed white guards.

I stared at the prisoners as they settled uncomfortably down in the dirt, under the shade of some straggly trees. One of the guards walked toward me. Nodding as he passed, he went up to our front door and knocked. My mother appeared at the door, and I heard the guard ask if he could have permission to get water from the pump in the backyard, so that his “men could have a drink”. My mother agreed, but I saw a look of concern on her face, as she called me inside.

I stared through the window as each prisoner was unchained from the line, to hobble over to the pump and drink his fill from a small tin cup, while a guard watched vigilantly.

It wasn’t long before they were all chained back up again, with prisoners and guards retreating into the shade, away from an unrelenting sun. I heard my mother call me into the kitchen, and I entered to see her bustling around with tins of tuna fish, mayonnaise, our last loaf of bread, and two big pitchers of lemonade.

In what seemed like “a blink of an eye” she had made a tray of sandwiches, using all the tuna we were to have had for that night’s supper. My mother was smiling as she handed me one of the pitchers of lemonade, cautioning me to “carry it carefully” and to “not spill a drop.” Then, lifting the tray in one hand and holding a pitcher in her other hand, she marched me to the door, deftly opening it with her foot, and trotted me across the street. She approached the guards, flashing them with a brilliant smile.

“We had some leftovers from lunch,” she said, “and I was wondering if we could share with you and your men.” She smiled at each of the men, searching their dark eyes with her own eyes of “robin’s egg blue.” Everyone started to their feet.

“Oh no!” she said. “Stay where you are! I’ll just serve you!” Calling me to her side, she went from guard to guard, then from prisoner to prisoner, filling each tin cup with lemonade, and giving each man a sandwich.

It was very quiet, except for a “Thank you, ma’am,” and the clanking of the chains. Very soon we were at the end of the line, my mother’s eyes softly scanning each face.

The last prisoner was a big man, his dark skin pouring with sweat and streaked with dust. Suddenly his face broke into a wonderful smile, as he looked up into my mother’s eyes, and he said, “Ma’am, I’ve wondered all my life if I’d ever see an angel, and now I have! Thank you!”

Again, my mother’s smile took in the whole group. “You’re all welcome!” she said. “God bless you.” Then we walked across to the house, with empty tray and pitchers, and back inside. Soon the men moved on, and I never saw them again.

The only explanation my mother ever gave me, for that strange and wonderful day, was that I “remember always to entertain strangers, for by doing so, you may entertain angels, without knowing.” Then, with a mysterious smile, she went about the rest of the day.

I don’t remember what we ate for supper that night. I just know it was served by an angel.

About the Author

Jaye Lewis is an award-winning writer and contributing author to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Jaye, who is a committed Christian, lives with her family in the beautiful Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. Visit Jaye’s website at http://www.EntertainingAngels.org or email her at jayelewis@comcast.net.