I walked a busy road carrying a jug of gas. Before cell phones or Uber, I’d left my wife in the car with our two oldest sons, the youngest less than a year old.

I’d grown up in a rural community where every driver stopped for strangers in need. I’d moved to an urban area to attend medical school. Things were different.

As I’d walked to the gas station, hundreds or thousands of cars had passed without slowing. Making my way back to my stranded family, I wondered and worried.

A rusted pick-up truck rolled toward me. I saw bales of hay and farm implements in the back. The fifty-something-year-old driver in a torn flannel shirt hung his elbow out the window. He reminded me of home.

“If anyone’s going to stop, it will be this guy,” I thought.

Sure enough, he passed, made a U-turn, and pulled up alongside me. He reunited me with my family and made sure we were safe before heading home to his small farm.

I wonder how many others were cared for by those thick callused hands and that beat-up truck.