韋達·博伊德·喬恩/Veda Boyd Jones
Many years ago, when I was fresh out of school working in Denver, I was driving to my parents’home in Missouri for Christmas.I stopped at a gas station about 50 miles from Oklahoma City, where I was planning to stop and visit a friend.I pumped the tank full, stood in line at the cash register, and said hello to an older couple who were also paying for gas.
I took off, but had gone only a few miles when black smoke poured from my exhaust pipe.I pulled over and wondered what I should do.
A car pulled up behind me.It was the couple I had spoken to at the gas station.They said they would take me to my friend’s.We chatted on the way into the city, and when I got out of the car, the husband gave me his business card.
I wrote him and his wife a thank-you note for rescuing me.Soon afterward, I received a Christmas package from them.Their note that came with it said that helping me had made their holidays meaningful.
Years later, I drove through a foggy morning to a conference in a nearby town.In late afternoon I returned to my car and found that I’d left the lights on all day, and the battery was dead.Then I noticed that the Friendly Ford dealership was right next door.I walked over and found two salesmen relaxing in a showroom devoid of customers.
“Just how friendly is Friendly Ford?”I asked and explained my trouble.
They quickly drove a pickup truck to my car, attached jumper cables, and started my car.They would accept no payment, so when I got home, I wrote them a note to say thanks.
I received a letter back from one of the salesmen.No one had ever taken the time to write him and say thank you, and it meant a lot, he said.
Another few years had passed when a friend’s husband died.Pat had been a well-respected doctor at a big hospital, and hundreds of cards were sent to the family.Among them was a sympathy card from a plumber who had once worked at their house.He wrote that when Pat had paid the bill, he wrote on the invoice,“Thank you for a good job.”