We were sitting at Waffle House, just me and my 5-year-old son, Josiah, when he spotted a man standing outside. His clothes were worn, his face tired, and he carried everything he owned in a small, tattered bag.
“Mom,” Josiah whispered, tugging at my sleeve. “Who is that?”
glanced over. “I think he might be homeless, sweetheart.”
Josiah’s little face scrunched in confusion. “What does that mean?”
“It means he doesn’t have a home,” I explained softly. “And he might not have food either.”
That was all it took. Before I could stop him, Josiah jumped out of his seat and ran to the man, waving him inside like an old friend.
“You don’t have a home? You can eat with us!” he said, beaming.
The man hesitated, looking down at his worn-out shoes. The whole restaurant had gone quiet. I could feel people watching, waiting to see what would happen next.
I nodded, smiling. “Please, let us get you a meal.”
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