The World Needs More Like Him

Some people don’t need an audience to do the right thing. They’re not loud about it. They don’t look for praise. They just live their lives with quiet decency — steady, kind, and thoughtful. He’s one of them.

After a major earthquake, during one of the many aftershocks, we were talking on the phone. He was away on a business trip, four hours from home. I told him I was fine — and I was — just tired, like everyone else, trying to stay steady.

But at 1 a.m., there was a knock on the door.

He had left early and driven through the night, through disrupted roads and aftershocks, just to be near me. Not because I asked. Not because I was in distress. But because he didn’t want me facing it alone.

Another time, a jolt in the night woke us. The light fitting above our bed was swaying. Without a word, he shifted closer and placed himself between me and the ceiling — just in case. It wasn’t grand. Just instinct. Just care.

Years ago, when I was working overseas with a non-profit in a rural village, an elderly local woman was hit by a motorbike. She needed surgery, and we had almost nothing to work with — not enough blood, not enough funds. Late that night, after I returned exhausted and heavy-hearted, he called. He somehow sensed something was wrong. I told him everything. His response was simple: “Use the money we set aside. That’s what it’s there for.”

He once hired a young immigrant — bright, capable, educated — but overlooked for years and working in the kitchen of a café. He saw her potential immediately. Hired her. Believed in her. That opened doors. When people later asked how he knew, he just shrugged and said, “Because more people need someone to believe in them.”

Even now, long after he’s stepped away from work, people still come to him. They seek his advice, his opinion, or just a listening ear. They don’t come out of habit. They come because they trust him.

And then there are the quiet, tender moments — when he sees me lost in thought and asks, “Do you miss your parents? Maybe we could fly you over to see them… or bring them here?” I remind him they’re gone. He lowers his eyes, a little embarrassed. But in that forgetfulness is a love that’s still trying to ease my sorrow.

He isn’t perfect. But he is good. Solid. Kind in ways that are easy to miss if you’re not paying attention — but unforgettable if you are.

The world often overlooks men like him.

It shouldn’t.

Because the world needs more like him.