Random Acts of Kindness
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Selfless acts of sacrifice that touch your heart strings...
https://www.facebook.com/reel/1085004376385861
https://www.facebook.com/reel/1085004376385861
I just made two young African American girls cry in Walmart… now I’m crying 😭….
We were both looking for and asking where the greeting cards were… for Mother’s Day cards…
I helped them find the section..
As we were all looking over the selection… they found one and asked how much it costs?
I showed them where to find the price… it was $5.99….
She started to put it back… I asked why, don’t you have enough money? She said, No…
I gave her $10… she was so joyful she had tears of joy…. So I gave her a $20 to buy her mom a gift…. She started jumping up and down with joy.. she kept thanking me, the other girl asked, can I buy a card for my mom too? So I gave her $10…. They were so so happy and grateful 🥹… now I’m crying 😭
We were both looking for and asking where the greeting cards were… for Mother’s Day cards…
I helped them find the section..
As we were all looking over the selection… they found one and asked how much it costs?
I showed them where to find the price… it was $5.99….
She started to put it back… I asked why, don’t you have enough money? She said, No…
I gave her $10… she was so joyful she had tears of joy…. So I gave her a $20 to buy her mom a gift…. She started jumping up and down with joy.. she kept thanking me, the other girl asked, can I buy a card for my mom too? So I gave her $10…. They were so so happy and grateful 🥹… now I’m crying 😭
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When Random acts of kindness tug at your hearts strings 
Note: click on the facebook link below for the full effect as you read this story...
"Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son's funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I'm not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high school janitor taught me to keep my emotions locked down tight. But when that first Harley rumbled into the cemetery parking lot, followed by another, then another, until the whole place vibrated with thunder—that's when I finally broke. My fourteen-year-old boy, Mikey, had hanged himself in our garage. The note he left mentioned four classmates by name. ""I can't take it anymore, Dad,"" he'd written. ""They won't stop. Every day they say I should kill myself. Now they'll be happy."" The police called it ""unfortunate but not criminal."" The school principal offered ""thoughts and prayers"" then suggested we have the funeral during school hours to ""avoid potential incidents."" I'd never felt so powerless. Couldn't protect my boy while he was alive. Couldn't get justice after he was gone. Then Sam showed up at our door. Six-foot-three, leather vest, gray beard down to his chest. I recognized him—he pumped gas at the station where Mikey and I would stop for slushies after his therapy appointments. ""Heard about your boy,"" he said, standing awkward on our porch. ""My nephew did the same thing three years back. Different school, same reason."" I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded. ""Thing is,"" Sam continued, looking past me like the words hurt to say, ""nobody stood up for my nephew. Not at the end, not after. Nobody made those kids face what they did."" He handed me a folded paper with a phone number. ""You call if you want us there. No trouble, just... presence."" I didn't call. Not at first. But the night before the funeral, I found Mikey's journal. Pages of torment. Screenshots of text messages telling my gentle, struggling son to ""do everyone a favor and end it."" My hands shook as I dialed the number. ""How many people you expecting at this funeral?"" Sam asked after I explained. ""Maybe thirty. Family, some teachers. None of his classmates."" ""The ones who bullied him—they coming?"" ""Principal said they're planning to, with their parents. To 'show support.'"" The words tasted like acid. Sam was quiet for a moment. ""We'll be there at nine. You won't have to worry about a thing."" I didn't understand what he meant until I saw them the next morning—a sea of leather vests, weathered faces, and solemn eyes. The Hell's Angels patches visible as they formed two lines leading to the small chapel, creating a corridor of protection. The funeral director approached me, panic in his eyes. ""Sir, there are... numerous motorcycle enthusiasts arriving. Should I call the police?"" ""They're invited guests,"" I said. When the four boys arrived with their parents, confused expressions turned to fear as they saw the bikers. Sam stepped forward and.... Check out the first comment to read the full story
https://www.facebook.com/reel/2424591364593113
Note: click on the facebook link below for the full effect as you read this story...
"Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son's funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I'm not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high school janitor taught me to keep my emotions locked down tight. But when that first Harley rumbled into the cemetery parking lot, followed by another, then another, until the whole place vibrated with thunder—that's when I finally broke. My fourteen-year-old boy, Mikey, had hanged himself in our garage. The note he left mentioned four classmates by name. ""I can't take it anymore, Dad,"" he'd written. ""They won't stop. Every day they say I should kill myself. Now they'll be happy."" The police called it ""unfortunate but not criminal."" The school principal offered ""thoughts and prayers"" then suggested we have the funeral during school hours to ""avoid potential incidents."" I'd never felt so powerless. Couldn't protect my boy while he was alive. Couldn't get justice after he was gone. Then Sam showed up at our door. Six-foot-three, leather vest, gray beard down to his chest. I recognized him—he pumped gas at the station where Mikey and I would stop for slushies after his therapy appointments. ""Heard about your boy,"" he said, standing awkward on our porch. ""My nephew did the same thing three years back. Different school, same reason."" I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded. ""Thing is,"" Sam continued, looking past me like the words hurt to say, ""nobody stood up for my nephew. Not at the end, not after. Nobody made those kids face what they did."" He handed me a folded paper with a phone number. ""You call if you want us there. No trouble, just... presence."" I didn't call. Not at first. But the night before the funeral, I found Mikey's journal. Pages of torment. Screenshots of text messages telling my gentle, struggling son to ""do everyone a favor and end it."" My hands shook as I dialed the number. ""How many people you expecting at this funeral?"" Sam asked after I explained. ""Maybe thirty. Family, some teachers. None of his classmates."" ""The ones who bullied him—they coming?"" ""Principal said they're planning to, with their parents. To 'show support.'"" The words tasted like acid. Sam was quiet for a moment. ""We'll be there at nine. You won't have to worry about a thing."" I didn't understand what he meant until I saw them the next morning—a sea of leather vests, weathered faces, and solemn eyes. The Hell's Angels patches visible as they formed two lines leading to the small chapel, creating a corridor of protection. The funeral director approached me, panic in his eyes. ""Sir, there are... numerous motorcycle enthusiasts arriving. Should I call the police?"" ""They're invited guests,"" I said. When the four boys arrived with their parents, confused expressions turned to fear as they saw the bikers. Sam stepped forward and.... Check out the first comment to read the full story
https://www.facebook.com/reel/2424591364593113