https://www.facebook.com/106398025782479/

Cosmetic Repair, 907 Virginia Street, Chicago, IL (2025)

11/04/2025

"My name is Harriet. I’m 79. I’ve cut out 123 "Free to Good Home" ads from the Evening Gazette since my husband moved to Oak Haven Care. Not to take things. To give them back.

It started last spring. I saw an ad, "Free baby crib. My daughter passed before we used it. Please treat it gently." My heart stopped. I called the number. A trembling voice answered. "I’m sorry," I said. "I don’t need the crib. But could I.... bring it to the women’s shelter? I’ll clean it myself."

She cried. "You’ll hold it like she would?"
"I promise," I said.

I washed that crib with lavender soap, oiled the wood, and tied a tiny knitted blanket to the rail, a blanket my hands made while my own daughter was born 50 years ago. At the shelter, I placed it in a room for new moms. A volunteer whispered, "This is the first crib we’ve had with a story."

The next ad broke me, "Free rocking chair. My husband sat here for 40 years. Now I’m moving to assisted living. It’s too heavy for me to carry." I showed up with my walker and a thermos of tea. I didn’t take the chair. I sat beside it for an hour, holding the woman’s hands as she told me about Sunday mornings reading the paper with him. Then I called the senior center. "I have a chair with 40 years of love in it," I said. "Can you use it?"

They did. Now it’s in their quiet room, where lonely elders sway while remembering.

Word spread. People began leaving me ads,
"Free to good home, My son’s first bicycle. He’s in heaven now."
I polished it, added a new bell, and gave it to a boy at the community center who’d never had one.
"Free, Wedding photo album. I’m downsizing. It feels like throwing away my marriage."
I had it restored, then gave it to a newlywed couple at the shelter who’d lost everything in a fire.

Last Tuesday, I saw an ad that shook me, "Free to good home: Service dog vest. My veteran son can’t keep it anymore. He says he doesn’t deserve joy." I called immediately. The mother’s voice was hollow. "He hasn’t left the house in months."

I didn’t take the vest. I brought it to the V.A. hospital with a note, "This vest held a hero’s courage. Now it holds hope for another." The next day, a nurse called. "A young man signed up for dog training today. He wore the vest."

I don’t fix the world. I just read the ads no one else sees.
I’ve placed 123 "free" things back into the world, cribs for grieving mothers, chairs for lonely hearts, bicycles for broken boys. Not as charity. As witnesses. Proof that what we love never truly dies. It waits in the newspaper, in the closet, in the heart of a stranger, for someone to say, "I see your pain. Let me carry it with you."

Today, 17 shelters and senior centers have "Harriet’s Corner" a shelf for donated items with handwritten notes about the love they carry. A retired reporter wrote, "We measure a life by what’s sold. Harriet measures it by what’s given away."

The greatest kindness isn’t in grand gestures. It’s in noticing the "free to good home" ads in the hearts around us, and becoming the home they need."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Grace Jenkins

11/04/2025

You are not obligated to explain your healing. Let them misunderstand. Your growth is valid, even if it isn’t seen or understood by others.

11/04/2025

"My name’s Vivian. I’m 79. I’ve worked the early shift at the Oakwood Community Pool for 22 years. Not to save swimmers from sinking, though I did that once. I watch for people sinking inside.

Every Tuesday at 9 a.m., Mrs. Evans comes. She’s 83. Walks slow. Wears a pale blue swimsuit. She sits in the shallow end for exactly 45 minutes. Never moves. Just stares at the water. Her hands shake. Last winter, she slipped. Hit her head. They said she’d never walk right again. Now she’s afraid to even touch the pool edge.

I asked her once, "Need help getting in?"
She shook her head. "Just..... watching the water’s enough."
I didn’t push. But I started turning the pool’s warm water just a little hotter on Tuesdays. So the steam would rise. So her eyes wouldn’t get cold.

Then came Mr. Davies. 89. Former mechanic. He’d sit on the pool deck every Thursday, staring at the deep end. One day, I saw him pull a folded photo from his pocket. A woman in a vintage swimsuit. His wife, he told me later. "We got married at a pool like this," he whispered. "She taught me to float." He hadn’t swum since she died.

I didn’t hand him a life jacket. I handed him a sponge. "Wash the tiles," I said. "Pool needs scrubbing." He did. Every Thursday. While he scrubbed, he talked. About her laugh. How she’d dive like a dolphin. How he still hears her saying, "Kick, Arthur! Kick!"

One rainy Tuesday, Mrs. Evans didn’t come. I called the number on her file. Her daughter answered, voice tight, "She won’t get out of bed. Says she’s useless."

I drove to her house. No siren. No drama. Just me in my pool uniform, holding a small plastic cup. I filled it with warm water from her sink. "Like the pool," I said. "Put your hand in. Just for a second."
She did. Trembling. Then I said, "Now kick your feet like you’re swimming."
She kicked. On her bed. And cried. "I forgot I could do that."

Next week, she came back. Sat in the shallow end. Kicked. Smiled when I turned up the heat.

Mr. Davies started bringing his wife’s old swim cap. Placed it on the deck. "For her," he’d say. One day, he lowered himself into the water. Just to his waist. "I’m kicking, Clara," he told the cap. "I’m kicking."

Last month, the pool manager said, "Vivian, you’re not a therapist. Stick to lifeguarding."
I told him, "My job’s to keep people safe. All of them."

Now? Mrs. Evans walks across the pool by herself. Mr. Davies swims 3 laps every Thursday. And every Tuesday and Thursday, I see new faces in the shallow end. People who just need to sit. To kick. To remember they’re still here.

I don’t blow a whistle for them. I turn up the heat. Hand them a sponge. Or sit quietly.
The water doesn’t drown the lonely. But kindness? It floats them back to shore."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Mary Nelson

11/04/2025

"My name is Amelia. I’m 81. My husband, Ben, passed last spring, and the quiet in our little house in Vermont got so loud it hurt. Every night, I’d cook his favorite meal, pot roast with carrots, just for myself. One evening, I made too much. I didn’t want it to spoil, so I wrapped the extra portion in foil, left it on the porch step with a note, “If you’re hungry, it’s warm. No need to knock.” I didn’t expect anyone to take it.

But the next morning, the foil was gone. Only a single, crumpled dollar bill sat in its place. I tossed it in my pocket, thinking, “Well, that’s that.”

I did it again the next night. And the next. Always the same, foil-wrapped food on the step at 6 p.m. Sometimes meatloaf. Sometimes soup. Never a sign with my name. Just the food, warm and steaming. The dollar bills kept coming. I started using them to buy more carrots.

Then, one icy December night, I saw her. A young nurse, her scrubs stained, standing on my step at 7 p.m. She looked exhausted. She took the container, hugged it to her chest, and whispered, “Thank you.” I watched from the window, my heart pounding. She didn’t see me.

The next day, I left two portions. One for her. One for whoever else needed it. The dollar bills turned into notes, “You saved my dinner.” “My kids loved this.” “You don’t know me, but you’re a blessing.”

One snowy evening, I opened the door to find a jar of homemade apple butter on my step. A note said, “From the nurse you fed. Made with Ben’s favorite apples.” I cried. Ben had an orchard.

I never told anyone it was me. Not even my son. But last week, I saw something impossible. A teenager left his extra sandwich on my step for the nurse. Then a widower down the street started leaving bread. A college student left soup. Now, every evening, my porch step holds warm food for whoever walks by without dollar bills, without notes. Just trust.

Yesterday, the nurse returned. She pressed a small bag into my hand. Inside were seeds for Ben’s apple trees. “Your kindness grew into something bigger,” she said. “We’re planting them all over town.”

The Unbelievable Truth?
I did this for two years before anyone knew it was me. And when they did, they didn’t thank me, they kept the chain going.

Here’s What I Know Now,
You don’t need a grand plan to heal the world. Just one warm plate on a cold step. One act of quiet generosity, repeated. The magic isn’t in the food, it’s in the not knowing who you’re feeding, or who will feed you next.

Kindness is never wasted.
It’s always repaid, just not in the way you expect."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Grace Jenkins

11/04/2025

Yes, the consequences of our wrong choices can be painful…
But sometimes, they’re what lead us exactly where we need to be.
God has a way of using even our missteps for purpose.

11/04/2025

"My name is Hailey. I’m 76. After my husband passed, my house felt too big and too empty. His tools sat untouched in the garage. His favorite chair gathered dust. I’d sit at the kitchen table, hands folded, listening to the clock tick. Too quiet. So I started sewing again, something I hadn’t done since my girls were small. Not fancy quilts. Just simple bookmarks, scraps of fabric, a few stitches, and a tiny note folded inside.

One Tuesday, I left my first one in a library book. Not because I wanted fame. Just because. The book was "The Little Prince," and I wrote, "Hope you find your rose today. You’re not alone. -D." I slipped it into the back cover and returned it.

A week later, I checked the same book. Gone. But the next time I borrowed it, there was a new note tucked in the margins. A shaky hand wrote, "Thank you, D. I’m 16. My mom’s sick. I read this every night. Your words made me cry. I left a bookmark in ‘Anne of Green Gables’ for you."

My heart jumped. I found that book. Inside was a bookmark made from a tea-stained napkin, with the words, "You’re seen." I added my own, a blue ribbon from my wedding dress, and left it in "Charlotte’s Web."

This became my quiet ritual. I’d sew bookmarks while watching the birds at my feeder. Then, I’d slip them into library books, a note for a single mom in "Goodnight Moon," a stitch of hope in "The Alchemist" for someone lost. Sometimes, I’d find replies. A teacher left a pressed flower with, "My students made bookmarks for the library. They called it ‘Hailey’s Garden.’" A soldier on leave wrote, "Your bookmark got me through a tough night. I added one for the next reader."

The library staff never stopped me. One day, the librarian, Sarah, handed me a basket. "From the community," she said. Inside were 50 hand-sewn bookmarks, made by teens, nurses, even the man who fixes the library’s roof. "They’re for you to share," she smiled. "We call this corner ‘Hailey’s Margins.’"

Last month, I found a note in a children’s book. It said, "I’m 8. My grandpa died. You left a bookmark in my book. Now I make them for my friends. They say it helps."

This isn’t about me. It’s about the tiny threads we weave between strangers when we choose to care. You don’t need a big stage to mend the world. Just a quiet moment, a scrap of fabric, and the courage to believe, someone out there needs your "you’re not alone."

Start small. A note. A stitch. A seed. The smallest act of kindness never stays small, it grows in the heart of the person who finds it. And that? That’s how we rebuild hope, one bookmark at a time."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Grace Jenkins

11/04/2025

"My name’s Hailey. I’m 79. I sweep the crosswalk at Oak Street and 5th every Tuesday and Friday. Not because I have to. Because I see the people.

I used to drive a school bus for 30 years. Then my hands got too shaky. But I missed the kids, their laughter, their “good mornings,” the way they’d wave even when I was late. So I asked the city if I could sweep the crosswalk where the school let out. They laughed. “You’re retired, Hailey.” I said, “I’m not done.”

For six months, I showed up anyway. Broke my own broom. Stood there in the rain with a dustpan. No one thanked me. The kids didn’t even look up. Just rushed past me, headphones on, eyes glued to their phones.

Then, one icy Tuesday, I saw her. A little girl, maybe 8. Pink coat. Red boots. She was crying on the curb. Her shoe had broken. The strap snapped. She couldn’t cross the street to get to school. Cars zoomed by. She was frozen.

I didn’t think. I walked right into the crosswalk. Stopped traffic with my broom. Crouched down. “Let’s fix this, sweet pea,” I said. I pulled a safety pin from my pocket, the one I always kept for torn uniforms back in my bus days. Sewed that strap right there, in the street. Her tears stopped. She hugged my waist. “You’re the best grandma,” she whispered.

The next week, she came back. Brought me a thermos of hot cocoa. “Mama said you fixed my shoe,” she said. “Can you fix my heart?” I asked, smiling. “It’s sad ‘cause Dad’s gone.” I just held her hand while she crossed.

Word spread. Not in a fancy way. Just kids whispering, “That lady in the crosswalk? She sees you.”

Now, every Tuesday and Friday, I bring extra safety pins. Band-aids. Granola bars. Kids drop off their broken things: a toy dinosaur, a notebook with torn pages, a drawing of a dog labeled “I’m lonely.” I fix what I can. The rest, I hold.

Last month, a teenage boy stopped me. “My grandma used to drive a bus,” he said, voice thick. “She died last year. You..... remind me of her.” He handed me a jar of coins. “For the crosswalk fund.”

I cried right there. Because it wasn’t about the coins. It was about the noticing.

Yesterday, the mayor showed up. Said the city would finally pay me. I refused. “This crosswalk isn’t mine to own,” I told him. “It’s theirs.” Now, kids bring their parents to meet me. Teachers bring classes for “safety lessons” that turn into talks about kindness. Even the grumpy shop owner across the street leaves a thermos of coffee for me every morning.

I don’t sweep the crosswalk for thanks. I do it because I needed someone to see me once. When I was 8. When my daddy left. A bus driver gave me a peppermint and said, “You’re not invisible, little light.”

That’s the truth I live by now,
The smallest act of seeing someone, truly seeing them, can mend a heart you didn’t even know was broken.
And when you start doing it? The world starts doing it back."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Mary Nelson

11/04/2025

"My name is Edward. I’m 71. Retired bus driver. Every Tuesday, I go to the post office to mail my pension check. Just me, the clerk, and the thump of boxes on the counter. Lately, I felt.... invisible. Like I didn’t matter since I stopped driving. My wife passed 3 years ago. Kids live far. Just me and the silence in my little house.

One Tuesday, I saw a young woman at the counter. Early 20s. Worn-out shoes. She counted pennies and dimes for a stamp, three times. Her hands shook. When the clerk said, "That’s 2 cents short," she froze. Her eyes filled up. She whispered, "I need to mail this to my mom. It’s her birthday."

I didn’t think. I dropped two pennies in her hand. "Here, love," I said. "Happy birthday to your mom." She looked at me like I’d given her gold. "Thank you," she breathed. "No one’s been kind to me today."

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I remembered my grandad giving me a coin when I was sad. He said, "Money’s cold, but this warms the heart." I dug out an old coffee tin. I wrote on it, "Need a lift? Take a coin. Pass it on." I taped it to the post office counter. I dropped in 5 coins, pennies, nickels, a shiny dime.

Next week, I checked. The tin was empty. But the clerk, Linda, gave me a note, "To the coin man, My daughter used one to buy soup. She’s sick. Thank you. -Maria"

I filled the tin again. Added a note, "You matter. Edward."

Then things changed. A teen left a new coin and a note, "For the next person. I got a job today!" An older lady added two quarters, "For the young mom. I remember." Someone left a wrapped candy, "Sweetness for you."

One rainy day, I found a different note. Not in the tin. Taped to my mailbox,
"Edward,
I’m the girl from the post office.
My mom got the letter.
She’s smiling now.
You gave me hope when I had none.
I started my own coin jar at the bus stop.
You’re not invisible.
You’re a light.
-Sarah"

My hands shook reading it. Not from sadness. From..... warmth. Like the sun hitting a window after a long winter.

Now, I see coins everywhere. A bus driver leaves one for the cashier. A nurse drops one for a tired teacher. It’s not about money. It’s about saying, "I see you. You’re not alone."

I’m just Edward. A retired bus driver. But that jar taught me, You don’t need to fix the world to matter. Sometimes, all it takes is one small coin..... and the courage to drop it in someone’s hand."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Grace Jenkins

11/04/2025

"My name is Lauren. I’m 79. I work part-time at Molly’s Hardware, not because I need the money (my pension covers coffee and crossword books), but because the owner, Tom, is my grandson. He asked me to “keep an eye on things” after his dad passed. I said yes.

I don’t stock shelves or ring up sales. I stand by the return counter.

People come to return things all day. A wobbly chair. A leaky bucket. A tool that “doesn’t work right.” But I see what Tom doesn’t, how they return things.

The man who drops a cracked picture frame on the counter like it’s trash. His hands shake. He won’t look up.
The young mom who returns half a bag of nails. She’s crying quietly into her sleeve.
The teen who slams a “broken” flashlight down. “Waste of money,” he mutters.

I don’t judge. I fix.

Not the things. The people.

When the man with the frame returned it, I said, “This was your wife’s favorite, wasn’t it?” He froze. Tears fell. I handed him a fresh frame from the back. “Free,” I said. “Just glue it tight.” He hugged me. Left his old frame on my counter. “Keep it,” he whispered. “For the next one.”

The young mom? I saw her car seat in the parking lot. I packed her nails into a little bag with a note, “For your baby’s first bed. Nails hold things together. So do moms.” She came back the next week, not to return, but to buy wood. She’s building a crib now.

The angry teen? I let him vent. Then I said, “This flashlight works. See?” I shined it on his face. “You’re mad because you’re scared. That’s okay.” He stared. Then he whispered, “My mom’s sick.” I gave him the flashlight. “Keep it. For when it gets dark.”

People think I’m just a “return lady.” But I’m not. I’m a mender of moments.

Last Tuesday, a woman returned a hammer. “It’s broken,” she said. But I saw the dent in her car door. “This hammer saved you,” I said. “It held off a robber, didn’t it?” She sobbed. I handed her a new hammer. “This one’s for you—to build something new.”

Now? People come back not to return things.

A widow left a jar of seeds, “For your garden.”
A trucker dropped off a toolbox, “For the next person who needs to fix something.”
Tom added a sign above my counter, “Returns Accepted. Hope Included.”
Yesterday, the angry teen returned. He handed me a small, smooth stone. “My mom’s better,” he said. “She gave me this. Says you fix broken things.” I put the stone in my pocket. It’s warm.

Here’s what I’ve learned,
The things we return aren’t broken.
We are.
And sometimes, all it takes is one kind word to make someone feel.... not broken.

So next time you’re at a counter, any counter look up.
The person behind it? They might be the one who sees you.
Who tells you, “You’re not trash. You’re just.... waiting to be fixed.”
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Mary Nelson

11/03/2025

"My name is Willa. I’m 79. I’ve worked at the Pine Ridge Highway Rest Stop for 12 years. Not as a cashier. Not as a cleaner. Just the woman who wipes the counters in the restroom. You know the place where truckers grab coffee, moms change diapers, and everyone rushes past me with wet hands.

I don’t talk much. I just see.

I see the young mom trembling while her baby screams in the sink. I see the old man struggling to pull up his pants. I see the trucker with tears in his eyes, staring at a photo in his wallet.

One Tuesday, a woman stumbled in pale, shaking, holding her belly. She was 30 weeks pregnant. “I can’t..... breathe,” she gasped. I knelt beside her. “Easy now,” I said, pressing a cold paper towel to her neck. “I was a nurse for 40 years. You’re okay. Breathe with me.”

I didn’t call an ambulance. Not yet. I just stayed. Rubbed her back. Told her about my own labor with my son, how the nurses held my hand when my husband couldn’t get there. Twenty minutes later, she smiled weakly. “You saved me.” I shook my head. “Just sat with you. That’s all.”

But that moment changed everything.

The next day, the mom returned. She brought me a thermos of soup. “My husband says you’re an angel.” I laughed. “I’m just Willa from Rest Stop 17.” But she insisted, “No. You saw me when no one else did.”

Then came the trucker with the photo. He told me his wife had passed. “I’m driving cross-country to scatter her ashes,” he whispered. I handed him a clean rag. “Wipe your eyes. Then drive safe.” He left a $20 bill folded in the sink. I put it in the “Tip Jar” for the next person who needed it.

Then the young soldier, back from overseas, crying in a stall. I left a clean towel and a note, “You made it home. That’s brave.” He came back the next week with a box of cookies for me.

People started waiting for me. They’d linger near the sinks, telling me about their bad days, their lost jobs, their loneliness. I never gave advice. Just listened. Wiped a tear. Handed a paper towel.

One morning, I found a note taped to the mirror,

“You don’t know me, but you saved me last winter. I was driving home to end it all. You smiled and said, ‘Honey, let me dry your hands.’ I stayed. -A Friend”

I cried for an hour in the supply closet.

Now, travelers ask for me. They film my quiet moments, me warming a baby’s bottle in the sink, calming a panic attack with a damp cloth, and post them online. They call it “The Rest Stop Kindness Project.” But it’s not a project. It’s just me, doing what I’ve always done.

Last week, the highway department sent me a letter, “Due to community requests, your position is now permanent. Pay doubled.” I cried again. Not for the money. For the proof, Small acts done with big love change the world, one paper towel at a time.

I still wipe counters. But now, when someone rushes in, I say,
“Take your time. I’m here.”

Because sometimes, the most powerful thing an old woman can offer.....
is a place to stop being alone."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Mary Nelson

11/03/2025

"My name is Henry. I’m 74. Retired bus driver. My wife, Rosalie, passed last spring. Some days, the quiet in my little house feels heavier than the snowdrifts outside my window. One Tuesday, I walked to the dollar store, Dollar Saver to buy coffee and a newspaper. It’s where folks like me go to feel less alone.

I saw her near the toy aisle, a woman in a faded coat, maybe 60, holding a broken plastic doll. Her hands shook. A little girl tugged her sleeve. "Mama, it’s cracked!" the girl whispered. The woman looked at the doll, then at the price tag. $1.50. She put it back on the shelf. The girl’s face fell. My heart cracked too. I knew that look, the I can’t afford even this look. I’d seen it on Rosalie’s face when times were tight.

I didn’t think. I just walked to the shelf, picked up a new doll, and put it in my basket. At checkout, I asked the cashier, a young man named Jamal, "Can you..... put this by the exit? For that little girl? Don’t say who from." He nodded, eyes soft. "I’ll do it."

The next day, I saw it. By the door, next to the trash can, was a small shelf someone nailed to the wall. On it, a new doll, a box of crayons, a pack of socks. A handwritten sign said, "Take what you need. Leave what you can." Under it, a note, "For the little girl. Hope she smiles today."

I started leaving things. A bottle of aspirin. A jar of honey (Rosalie’s recipe). A single egg (from my neighbor’s chickens). No name. No fuss. Just here.

Then others joined.

A teenager left a brand-new notebook, "For school. You’re smart."
A nurse put hand cream, "For hard-working hands."
An elderly man left a single bus token, "For the tired."
One rainy afternoon, a woman with no shoes stood by the shelf. She took the socks. She didn’t leave anything. But the next day, she was back, sweeping the store’s floor with a broom. Jamal didn’t ask why. He just gave her a coffee.

Last week, I found a note under the shelf. It was from the little girl. "Dear person who left the doll, Her name is Rosie. I named her after my grandma. Thank you for seeing me."

I cried right there in the dollar store. Because seeing someone, truly seeing them, is the hardest kindness of all.

Now, the shelf is overflowing. Not with money, but with care. A single apple. A pair of gloves. A note, "You matter." People don’t just take. They give back in ways they can: sweeping floors, fixing the shelf when it’s wobbly, sharing their last granola bar.

This isn’t about dollars. It’s about dignity.
It’s about the woman who can’t buy new socks but can sweep a floor.
The teen who can’t afford a notebook but can write "You’re smart."
The old man who has no one to cook for, so he shares his honey.

Good living isn’t about how much you have. It’s about how much you give when you have little.
You don’t need a big heart to change the world.
You just need to notice the broken doll on the shelf.... and become the hand that lifts it."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Please follow us: Astonishing
By Grace Jenkins

11/03/2025

Sometimes clarity comes when you step away. Breathe in fresh air, ground yourself in the present, and gently remember the direction you’re meant to go. Then move, intentionally and boldly.

Cosmetic Repair

11/04/2025

11/04/2025

11/04/2025

11/04/2025

11/04/2025

11/04/2025

11/04/2025

11/04/2025

11/04/2025

11/03/2025

11/03/2025

11/03/2025

Address

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Contact The Business

Shortcuts

Share

Category