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This was our first house as a married couple, and the first house that I could ever remember living in. We moved into our old-fashioned 1920 home in Bellflower, California in December 1990. It was situated on a very busy street, surrounded by businesses.

The dwelling was so run down that large chunks of withered white paint were peeling off the outside of the building. The worn carpets were so frayed that there seemed to be less of them each time I vacuumed. If we flushed the toilet or ran water while taking a shower, ice cold water would be delivered to the showering person, very sluggishly.

Off to the right side of our home was an unused carport. It was a welcome spot for the homeless because it provided warmth from the cold, harsh winds that accompanied the winter rains. We spent a lot of time sanitizing that corner, since it served as their out-house.

Every morning I’d wake up to find homeless people walking up and down the street. Some were riding on dilapidated bikes; or pushing shopping carts full of trash bags that contained blankets, recyclable cans, glass and other miscellaneous items. Others were wearing backpacks and carrying rolled sleeping bags under their arms.

No matter the mode of transportation, they all looked like they hadn’t brushed their teeth or bathed in months. I often heard them mumbling to themselves, never quite making out what they were saying. I believe they were having a conversation with their inner selves.

Although our family couldn’t afford to have the best while we were just starting out, my heart went out to these homeless people. It was the first time I saw people sleeping on the streets and wearing the same clothes, day in and day out. While I was growing up, no matter how tough it got, my mother always made sure I had a roof over my head, food on the table and clean clothes to wear. I was shocked to see how these homeless people really lived.

Wanting to help, but uncertain about what I could do, I had an idea. One day, as I was cleaning out our closets, I pulled out all the clothes that no longer fit and thought, "If I donate them to the thrift store, these homeless people won’t be able to afford them." So I decided to try an experiment instead.

The next morning, I carried out a large cardboard box and placed it in a conspicuous place at the far end of our front lawn. I attached a large sign, written in bold black letters, across the side that said, "FOR THE HOMELESS. IF YOU HAVE A HOME PLEASE DO NOT TAKE!" Then I neatly arranged the display of clothes inside the box and hurried inside. As I peeked through my front window, I saw car after car pull up and prepare to take the items, until they saw the sign. Growing tense I wondered, "Was my plan going to work?"

A tall and lean balding man, wearing a badly worn T-shirt, jeans peppered with holes, and tattered sneakers that used to be white, walked up to the box. At first he looked around cautiously to see if anyone was watching him. I observed him as he carefully picked up my husband’s seasoned blue jeans. After examining them from end to end, he held them to his waist, glancing down to carefully check the length.

The man winced as I opened my front door. Obviously startled, he quickly threw the jeans down and began to run away. But suddenly he stopped in his tracks, turned around and sheepishly walked over to me. "I’m . . .I’m awful sorry lady,” he stammered. “Are these . . . y . . . yours?" He seemed embarrassed.

“Yes they are,” I replied. With a look of disappointment he started to walk away again.

"Wait,” I shouted. “You’re welcome to keep them. I placed them here so you could take them. I only opened the door because I wanted to ask if you’d like some more clothes. I didn’t put them all out at once. Would you like to see them?”

With a look of mistrust the man replied, "Maybe . . . Okay . . . Yes . . . Yes please."

I hurried into the house and grabbed the rest of the jeans. As I handed them over to the poor fellow, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I thanked God for letting me live in this neighborhood.

When winter arrived, I placed two comforters outside. An eager heavy-set lady with snarled snow-gray hair came just as I was carrying them outside. Picking up the comforters and looking them over she asked, "Are you getting rid of these?"

“Yes. I was hoping that someone could use them. This one needs to be sewn though."

She smiled and responded, "I can do that. My grandkids could sure use these to keep warm this winter. We are grateful for your kindness." She walked proudly down the street with her newly acquired treasures.

As I watched her walk away, I felt grateful too—grateful for the things I had, regardless of how shabby they seemed to others. I felt blessed because I had a husband, a baby and a nice warm home. I have decided to make it my mission to always place clothes and blankets outside, and to warm the hearts of others—for as long as I live here.