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?”
I 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.”
