My just-after-dark drive home from the grocery store last summer was a windows-down, radio-a-little-too-loud kind of ride. It included the sweet smell of cut grass from nearby fields on the warm night air.

It was the perfect kind of night, and it included something unexpected.

I got a call from a Hannaford clerk saying someone just behind me had found my wallet and decided to walk it back inside. In it was my two credit cards, three 50s and too many personal items to count. But there it all was when I returned. Undisturbed.

With seemingly bad characters all around us, it made me smile. But not because it “restored my faith,” or that it “proved there are still good people out there.” That night I smiled because it reinforced what I think the real truth is.

The truth that there are far, far more people like that person behind me than those spewing hate and spraying bullets.

The good ones live, too many to count, on my road, in my town and across this country. For each one who would have taken advantage of me that night, there are thousands more who would have done what this person did. And even if the one who found my wallet had been in the minority, it wouldn’t have changed a thing for me.

It may be difficult to believe that the good out number the bad, but they are literally everywhere. They just don’t tend to get themselves on TV. They simply love their kids, work hard to pay their bills — and return wallets when they find them. They’ll teach your kids, build your roads, and die for you, without even knowing who you are.

I wanted to know who this person was when I got back to the store. I asked, but of course they didn’t leave their name. It’s not why they did it anyway. They did it because they don’t know another way.

We know these people, you and I. We pass them every day on the streets and sidewalks of our cities and towns. Look for them and you’ll end up elevating your own experience.

I especially enjoyed my second drive home that evening. Not because I got my wallet back, but because I felt just a little bit richer. Richer in a sweet smell of cut grass on a warm summer night kind of way. No doubt my new friend was feeling the same.

Read more stories from Maine at www.pressherald.com/meetinghouse

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