I was always told to treat others the way you want to be treated.
It’s a simple idea. Almost too simple for how heavy life can become. But every now and then, life creates a moment so small, so ordinary, that it quietly becomes a compass for everything that follows.
For me, that moment was a sandwich.
Twenty years ago, before GC Network Solutions existed, before I knew what direction my life would take, I was working onsite as an IT consultant at an office where Craig had also been hired as a contractor. He was a financial consultant. I was just trying to figure things out.
On my first day, he offered me half of his lunch.
No introduction. No speech. Just a sandwich, broken in two, and an empty chair in his office.
We sat. We ate. We talked.
That was the beginning.
Over the years, Craig became more than a coworker. He became a mentor. A sounding board. A friend. When I told him I was thinking about starting my own business, he was genuinely excited for me. He understood independence. He had always worked for himself. He believed in betting on your own hands.
As time passed, his health began to decline. Back surgeries slowed him down. The world got smaller for him. So I went to him.
We would sit for hours while he told stories — real stories. Not the kind you scroll past, but the kind that feel like entire lifetimes compressed into words.
He told me about traveling the world working in textiles. About being at Woodstock. About living on the cliffs of Negril, Jamaica in the late 60s and early 70s, before the resorts, before the postcards — when the place was raw and quiet and honest.
You could hear the ocean in his memories.
Now Craig is 78.
A month ago, his only son passed away.
Shortly after, his wife of over 15 years moved out.
Now he has to leave his apartment because he can’t afford the rent on his own.
That’s not one loss. That’s an avalanche.
It’s the kind of weight that bends even the strongest men.
Craig has two close friends now. Me, and Vince — who is 75. That’s his circle. That’s his front line. That’s his family.
So we show up.
We make calls. We sit with him. We listen. We help untangle what we can. We remind him he’s not invisible. That he still matters. That his story didn’t end when the room got quieter.
His memory isn’t what it used to be. Sometimes he forgets details.
But he never forgets that sandwich.
He still brings it up.
And I think about that often — how something so small can survive when so much else fades.
Philosophy talks about virtue. About character. About how a good life is built not from grand gestures, but from consistent, quiet choices.
Kindness offered when it isn’t required.
Time given when it isn’t convenient.
Loyalty without witnesses.
We spend so much of our lives building things — careers, businesses, identities, plans.
But in the end, what remains is simpler.
Who sat with you.
Who stayed.
Who broke their bread when you were new to the room.
Our elders don’t need to be forgotten chapters. They are living libraries. They are mirrors of our future. One day, if we are lucky, we will move slower too. We will need patience too. We will hope someone remembers our name when the world rushes past.
Craig doesn’t need saving.
He needs friendship.
He needs dignity.
He needs to know that the way he lived mattered to someone.
So we show up.
Because love isn’t loud.
And empathy doesn’t announce itself.
Sometimes it just looks like half a sandwich, placed gently on a desk, twenty years before you ever realize how sacred that moment was.
