Recently, a young stranger stopped when he saw my daughter trying to un-wedge her car from a rock solid bank of ice and snow along the side of a road. She had landed there after hitting a patch of black ice and watching her life pass before her eyes as her car took her on a brief but terrifying wild teacup spin. (As I did more than thirty years ago, she learned about black ice by doing; as long as you live to tell the tale, it is those lessons that stay with you the longest.)
Naturally, when my phone rang at 9:30 at night and I knew she should be on her way home, I was overcome with a strange mix of relief and fear at the sound of her shaky voice. Something bad had happened, but she was alive. Three-sixties on a highway, no matter how sparse the traffic, are terrifying, and we would both have plenty of time later to get lost in our thoughts about what could have been but what, thankfully, was not. We focused our attention on how to get her and her car back home and make sure she did not get frostbite in the sub-zero temperatures. I threw pants on over my pajamas and rushed off to rescue her over ten miles away. I scanned my mind's Rolodex and called Walter, my car guy. He has always said we could call if we need anything, and this seemed to be as good a time as any to take him up on that offer.
As I raced (to the extent the elements would permit) to get there from the East, and Walter revved up his big truck and tossed in some heavy chains, the young stranger happened upon the scene, and stopped to help. My daughter was on the phone with me, convincing me he was just that -- a kind stranger; not a rapist or a serial killer. He had insisted she sit in the driver's seat of his car (making it difficult for him to hop in and steal her away) to stay warm while he waited outside for me to show up. I took it on faith that her instincts were correct, and I resisted the temptation to speed up on the icy roads. When I finally arrived, the young man was indeed standing outside as my daughter enjoyed the warmth of his car. On first glance, he looked a bit like Grizzly Adams, but I immediately saw what she had perceived to be a kind and generous face beneath the thick beard.
He agreed to take off once I assured him help was on the way. It did not take a rocket scientist to figure out that this crazy middle aged woman with pajamas stuffed into her pants would be unable to get the car out of its icy nest; no matter how much furniture I had been able to move on my own, I was woefully unprepared for this one. I asked him if I could send him something, do something for him to thank him. "Just pay it forward one day," he said. He even mentioned the possibility that someone might, one day, do the same for him. Walter showed up with his truck and his heavy chains. After a few tries he extracted the car from the ice, and stayed with us until he felt confident we could get the car home safely. Given half a chance, I would (I hope) go out of my way to help Walter and his family, pay forward the countless times he has been there for us.
I met someone recently who is heading to Europe soon to see the Italian man who had, as a young farm boy during World War II, rescued this person's father and his copilot and brought them to his home after their plane had been shot down. He has always kept up communication with this heroic and kind hearted stranger, the boy who had risked everything to allow an enemy soldier to go back to his home and live a life. The young farm boy is elderly now, in failing health. Like many of that generation, he will not be around for long. But because of what he did more than seventy years ago, this person was given the opportunity to be born and live life. He wonders whether he could -- or would -- ever perform an act of heroism even close in magnitude to the deed of the young farm boy. A deed of basic humanity that was punishable by death to the entire family.
Most of us do not have enemy air men land in our backyard; nor do we find ourselves riding along a quiet road on an icy winter night only to find a stranded and terrified teenage girl. We like to hope that we will be that kid or that guy, the one who stops and risks anything -- be it frost bite or death -- to help somebody who is, to say the least, in a pickle. I have seen my daughter be that kid from time to time, going out of her way to get someone who needs a ride, helping someone who is struggling with writing, putting everything aside to listen to a friend who is having a bad day. I like to think that she will continue to do such things, and that if she is ever again in a jam a like minded person will happen by and help her out.
We may never get the chance to pay it forward by saving a life, but we all have opportunities every day to help in some small way. It adds up. 
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