The winter air in Lebanon has a way of being both crisp and heavy with history. This past December, I travelled there to visit my husband, who has been serving with the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL) for nearly a year. We had 10 days together – a precious window to explore the country’s rugged coastlines and ancient hilly towns.On a quiet morning meant for a road trip to the suburbs, our plans came to a dead halt. The rental car, our only means of transport, refused to start.The silence that follows a dead engine is uniquely frustrating. We were far from getting any help, and our rental agent was two hours away. We felt stranded.Illustration: Pariplab ChakrabortyEventually, the silence was broken by the rhythmic, desperate cough of another engine. A man was hunched over a dilapidated car, trying to coax it to life. His daughter, with the face of an angel, sat inside looking at him working. We approached him, hoping he might know a local mechanic.Communication was difficult, our languages didn’t match, but we understood each other and our situation. He didn’t say much, but he motioned for us to wait.Once his own worn-out car finally sputtered to life, he carefully maneuvered his car nose-to-nose with ours. He used his own engine to jumpstart ours.Suddenly, the silence was gone. Our car was humming again.We felt a rush of gratitude, and noticing his weathered clothes and struggling vehicle, we reached into our pockets to offer him money. The reaction was immediate, and I felt a pang of regret the moment I saw his face. His expression was of hurt pride.We later learned he was a Syrian refugee. In a world that often views people like him through the lens of mere statistics, he reclaimed his role as a friend, a neighbour.In that brief exchange, he wasn’t a “refugee” in need of charity; he was the man who saved our day. He didn’t help us expecting anything in return; he helped us because he knew what it felt like to be stuck.He taught us that kindness isn’t a transaction, and it’s certainly not something that belongs only to those with “enough” to give. Generosity is sharing that very thing you are struggling to keep to yourself.As he drove away with his daughter, he left us a reminder – the most powerful emotions are fuelled by simple human acts of grace.Aadrita Hazarika is a former academician-turned content writer. She writes on food, travel and all things good.We’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.Read the series here.