The People I Met Along the Road, and the Blueprint God Had for Me
“The menu can change every day, but the quality of what you serve should never disappear.”
I learned something about life that took me years to understand.
Sometimes you can do something from the goodness of your heart and still make a decision that leaves you frightened about tomorrow.
Sometimes you can help another person get through a difficult day and find yourself needing help the very next day.
And sometimes the people you meet along the road aren't there because you have all the answers.
They're there because you still have something to learn.
I didn't understand all of that when I was a young man working at a truck stop in Salina, Kansas.
I was still trying to figure out my own life.
And I had no idea that a homeless couple, three strangers at a shelter, and an older truck driver would become part of a blueprint I hadn't yet learned how to read.
A Young Man in a Bow Tie
After meeting my biological father, Creed, and leaving his home without the answers I had hoped to receive, I knew I had to keep moving forward.
I needed to make a living.
I applied for a job as a host at a truck stop.
I didn't know much about dressing for a job interview, so I went to Goodwill and found myself an outfit.
Black bell-bottom pants.
A white shirt.
A bow tie.
And a pair of old black shoes from the seventies that reminded me of KISS boots.
I walked into that interview wearing what I had.
The gentleman looked at me and invited me to sit down.
I wondered what he was thinking about my clothes.
But I got the job.
I was excited. I was anxious.
This was something I'd never done before, and I knew I was going to have to figure it out quickly.
One of the first things they taught us wasn't how to seat customers or organize the dining area.
It was customer service.
They stressed that customer service was the most important thing.
You could have the best food in the world, but if you couldn't make someone feel welcomed, appreciated, and valued, what good was it?
You had to get people through the door.
And once they walked through that door, they needed to know that you appreciated them choosing your place.
A lot of truck drivers came through there.
They had been traveling down those highways, and they wanted a warm meal, a pleasant atmosphere, and someone who would speak to them cordially.
I learned how to seat people, prepare the dining area, and organize my responsibilities.
But the lesson that stayed with me was about how you treated another human being.
That lesson would become much more important than I realized.
The Older Gentleman Who Came Every Week
There was an older truck driver who came through the diner regularly, about once a week.
I can't remember his name.
But I remember his wisdom.
He had traveled a lot of roads in his life, and sometimes we would talk.
He told me that people often think life is supposed to be about happiness.
But life is also about learning.
Learning morals.
Learning values.
Learning ethics.
Learning beliefs.
Learning about yourself.
He told me that life would bring challenges, struggles, and pain.
And that finding your purpose sometimes meant learning how to deal with those experiences rather than trying to escape them.
One thing he said stayed with me.
He told me that I was the author of my own story.
And he warned me to think before I reacted.
Sometimes, he explained, we find ourselves fighting battles we didn't need to be in. But the decisions and choices we made helped put us there.
He told me there would come a time when I would have to think seriously about which path I wanted to take.
Because choosing the wrong path could cause my life to fall apart.
I listened.
And at night, I wrote in my journal.
I had been writing since I was a little boy.
Back then, in foster care, I sometimes wrote on paper towels or toilet paper. I studied words and pictures in a Sears Roebuck catalog, trying to learn and understand things.
There were times when my pencils and writing materials were taken away.
I remember moving boxes in a closet and writing on the wall behind them.
Writing was something I could do when I didn't know what else to do.
Now, as a young adult, my journal had become a place where I examined my experiences.
I would think about what had happened during the day.
What had I learned?
What could I have done differently?
Was there something positive hidden inside a negative experience?
One night, I asked myself a question.
I'd already had bad experiences in my life.
But was I mature enough to begin making the right decisions so I could move forward with a new plan?
I began thinking about the people I surrounded myself with.
If I continued spending time with people who wanted to tear me down, how was I going to build myself up?
I wanted to learn from people who had already climbed the mountain.
People who were willing to extend a hand to help someone else climb.
I also began examining my own blueprint.
My attitude.
My direction.
My motivation.
My self-confidence.
I was learning that I couldn't control everybody around me.
Not everybody was going to like me.
Not everybody was going to accept me.
Not everybody was going to love me, help me, or stand beside me in the end.
And I had to learn to accept that.
I thought about all the stress I had carried through my life.
It was like having a backpack strapped to my back, filled with pain, fear, anxiety, and experiences I couldn't change.
I wrote in my journal that stress was like cancer.
I meant that carrying it without relief could gradually break a person down.
Sometimes you have to let go.
Sometimes that means forgiveness.
Sometimes it means accepting what's happening in your life and choosing to move forward.
I began telling myself to love myself, invest in myself, listen to myself, and pay attention to my emotions and internal monologue.
And when I couldn't carry everything anymore, I could give my worries to God.
I didn't have to solve every problem at once.
Life was like a puzzle.
Sometimes you only had three or four pieces in front of you.
Why keep adding more pieces until you couldn't understand the picture anymore?
I wanted to learn to stay calm, trust the process, and continue my journey.
But knowing those lessons and living them were two different things.
I was about to discover that.
The Couple Who Walked Through the Door
I had been working at the truck stop for approximately two years when something happened that I will never forget.
A homeless couple came inside looking for food.
I told them to order something.
I would buy it for them.
My supervisor was there.
He told me, "Jeffrey, that's not your responsibility."
I understood what he was saying.
But I told him that I believed helping them was the best thing for me to do.
It was in my heart.
He instructed me to tell the couple they weren't welcome and needed to leave.
Then he went back to his office.
I stood behind that counter.
And suddenly, I wasn't just thinking about the couple.
I was thinking about a little boy.
Me.
I remembered being locked in that dark room in foster care.
I remembered being hungry.
I remembered putting dog food in my little pocket when nobody was looking and taking it upstairs.
I remembered eating it because it helped with the hunger pains.
Those memories never left me.
And now there were two people standing in front of me who needed something to eat.
I told myself I couldn't let it go.
I couldn't watch them walk away hungry when I had an opportunity to help.
They had placed an order.
I paid for the food.
Then I grabbed it and ran out of the truck stop.
The couple was walking along I-70, approximately a hundred yards ahead of me.
I started hollering.
"Hey! Wait! Wait!"
They stopped.
They wanted to know what I needed.
I told them I had their food.
When I reached them and handed it over, they looked surprised.
The woman began to cry.
She told me they hadn't eaten in a long time.
They had a little dog with them.
And seeing that dog brought back another memory of the food I'd hidden in my pocket as a child.
I knew what hunger felt like.
I knew what it felt like to wonder whether somebody was going to help.
I began talking with them.
I told them that I believed people met for a reason.
Sometimes, when you meet someone, you're meeting yourself in a different body, learning unforgettable lessons about life.
I believed everybody had a special, unique gift to offer this world in their own way.
I believed everybody was an angel on this Earth.
The woman asked me why I was helping them.
I told her I'd been there.
I'd experienced hunger as a child.
I understood something about what they were going through, even though I didn't know their entire story.
I told them that they had probably helped people throughout their own lives, long before I ever met them.
They had their own experiences, their own relationships, and their own opportunities to show love and respect.
And that day, I wanted to be their angel.
I opened my billfold.
I gave them another twenty dollars.
Back then, twenty dollars was a lot of money to me.
The woman cried.
The man looked distraught and surprised by what was happening.
I hugged her.
She asked how she could ever repay me.
I told her what I wanted.
Someday, when someone else crossed her path and needed help, I wanted her to help that person.
If somebody was down, help bring them up.
Plant a positive seed in somebody's heart, mind, and soul.
Let that seed of love continue growing.
I told her that I believed God would repay me tenfold.
I gave her another hug.
I encouraged her to stay calm, trust her journey, and remember that things could get better.
Then I walked back toward the truck stop.
I never saw that couple again.
I don't know what happened to them.
But I have never forgotten them.
The Decision I Questioned
When I returned to work, my supervisor called me into his office.
"Mister Badders. I want you in the office right now."
I went inside and sat down.
He told me that most people listened to him because he was the boss.
And I hadn't listened.
I told him that he didn't know much about my life.
I explained that I had grown up in foster care, expecting adults to teach me, love me, respect me, and be there for me.
But many of those experiences hadn't turned out that way.
I told him that, as an older man and a supervisor, he had an opportunity to show me how a leader would handle the situation.
Instead, I felt that he had only shown me his authority as a boss.
I was looking for people in my life who could teach me something.
I wanted leadership, not just criticism.
And then I made a decision.
I told him it was my last day.
I quit right there.
I never went back.
But walking away from that office didn't mean I felt completely at peace.
I was scared.
And when I thought about what I'd done, I realized I might not have handled the situation in the best way.
I could have given him two weeks' notice.
I could have considered my financial situation and what resources I had available before leaving.
I still believed in helping that couple.
But I began questioning the way I had made my decision about my job.
That's when another lesson became very real to me.
Don't ever make decisions on your emotion. Make decisions on the choices and resources you have in your life.
I'd been listening to that older truck driver talk about choosing the right path.
Now I was experiencing the consequences of one of my own choices.
I needed work.
I needed food.
And I needed somewhere to stay.
From Helping Someone to Needing Help
After leaving the truck stop, I had to go to a food bank.
I stayed with friends while I tried to get back on my feet.
There were moments when I felt ashamed.
Sometimes life puts you in circumstances where you have to do things you don't want to do.
You might not want to ask for help.
You might want everybody to believe you're doing fine.
But sometimes you're not fine.
And pretending otherwise doesn't change your circumstances.
When I went to the food bank, though, I started thinking about something else.
How could I help these people?
Could I volunteer?
Eventually, that's what I did.
I volunteered at a food bank and a homeless shelter.
At the food bank, I listened and helped pass out food.
I can't tell you that I changed anybody's life there.
I didn't know all those people or what happened to them afterward.
What I can tell you is that I showed up and helped.
And at the homeless shelter, I met three people whose stories would stay with me.
John, Sally, and Frank
Their names were John, Sally, and Frank.
They had different backgrounds and different experiences.
But each had something to share.
John struggled with alcoholism.
He told me about a difficult childhood, abuse, and loneliness.
He talked about how alcohol had become a way to numb his pain so he didn't have to face everything happening in his life.
His struggles had affected his marriage and the way he treated people.
Then there was Sally.
She told me about being abused when she was young.
She described growing up around manipulation and control, and how those experiences affected the choices she made.
She had become involved in prostitution.
She wasn't happy about everything she'd done, but she explained that some of those choices had been about surviving.
And then there was Frank.
Frank struggled with drugs.
He told me that there were different kinds of abuse.
Mental.
Physical.
Emotional.
He described growing up in a home where his parents used drugs.
He said he never really had the opportunity to be a child.
He had to grow up quickly.
He didn't feel he had direction, motivation, or confidence in himself.
Instead of learning to think for himself, he followed what he saw his parents and other people doing.
And now he was living with the consequences.
I listened to all three.
I didn't know everything about their lives.
I only knew what they chose to share with me.
But as I listened, I began thinking about my own childhood.
Ten different foster homes.
Different religions.
Different cultures.
Different people with different beliefs, opinions, and ways of looking at life.
I remembered abuse, fear, hunger, and loneliness.
I remembered how badly I had wanted somebody to care.
And I began reflecting on the choices I'd made to keep moving forward.
I wasn't better than John.
I wasn't better than Sally.
I wasn't better than Frank.
I had experienced my own pain and made my own mistakes.
So when they finished sharing their stories, I decided to share mine.
I wanted to be upfront and honest.
I wanted to be transparent.
I told them about growing up in foster care and some of the experiences I'd endured.
They seemed surprised.
They had apparently thought I was somehow above them because I was there volunteering.
But that wasn't how I saw myself.
I accepted them for who they were.
I wasn't there to judge their lives.
And I told them something I believed deeply.
“I'm not the author of your story.”
They were the authors of their own stories.
They had choices to make.
They would decide which people to bring into their lives and which paths to follow.
I could listen.
I could share what I'd learned.
I could encourage them to think before reacting, especially when emotions were overwhelming their judgment.
But I couldn't live their lives for them.
I told them that everybody had a special, unique gift to offer the world.
Everybody was an angel on this Earth in their own way.
I can't remember exactly how each of them responded.
There were a lot of emotions involved.
Four people had shared deeply personal experiences with people who had previously been strangers.
But I remember the atmosphere being peaceful and calm.
I thought I could see some relief on their faces.
I can't say for certain what they felt.
What mattered to me was that they had been able to speak without being judged by me.
And I had been able to do the same.
The Blueprint I Hadn't Understood
That night, I went home and sat on my bed.
I began writing in my journal.
I thought about John, Sally, and Frank.
I thought about the homeless couple.
I thought about the older truck driver who had shared his wisdom with me.
And I thought about my own life.
I had once believed I would have one blueprint.
One plan.
One direction.
But God had other plans.
Growing up in ten different foster homes had exposed me to different religions, cultures, races, opinions, and beliefs.
Those experiences taught me that people weren't all going to think the way I did.
They weren't all going to believe the same things.
And they weren't all going to walk the same road.
But that didn't give me the right to look down on them.
I needed to look at each person as somebody trying to get through life.
Somebody with their own struggles.
Somebody working with whatever choices, resources, and understanding they had.
I couldn't judge them for that.
All I needed to do was invite them along on my journey in life.
I thought about how I had described life as a story.
We make decisions about the characters we bring into our lives.
We make choices about the direction we take.
But I also believed that God was the producer and director of a much bigger story.
Sometimes He brought people into our lives because they needed help through a storm.
Sometimes He brought people into our lives because we needed to learn something from them.
And sometimes we wouldn't understand the reason until much later.
I began thinking about something I'd done when I was approximately sixteen years old.
I had been curious about my name.
I looked up my last name, Badders, and learned about its English origins.
Then I looked up Jeffrey.
I associated the meaning of my first name with God's peace and God's divine purpose.
I remembered that as I sat on my bed with my journal.
My name had meaning to me.
And maybe the experiences I was going through had meaning, too.
I didn't know my whole purpose.
I didn't know exactly where God wanted me to go.
But I was beginning to recognize something inside myself.
I had compassion for people.
I had a passion for helping them.
And I didn't want my life to be about accumulating possessions.
I wrote something that reflected how I wanted to live.
“I'm not here to accumulate things in life. I'm here to impact people's lives.”
I didn't want to tear people down.
I didn't want to kick them to the side.
I wanted to bring them along.
I wanted people to understand that they could have a good life, even though the road could be difficult.
But moving forward would require something.
Discipline.
Determination.
Dedication.
Those were the three things I believed could help me keep walking when life became difficult.
And I had to keep that fire inside me alive.
Another Door
As I continued writing, I asked myself what God wanted me to do next.
I still needed to make a living.
I needed another paying job.
But I also knew that I wanted to continue helping people.
I thought about the generations that had come before me.
The people who had helped build the world I was now living in.
I wanted to give something back to them.
To inspire.
To encourage.
To empower.
To enlighten people's souls.
I began wondering whether I could volunteer at a nursing home.
I didn't know what that experience would be like.
I didn't know who I would meet.
And I certainly didn't know how much my life might change.
I only knew that something inside me was telling me to keep moving forward.
When I looked back at the little boy who had hidden dog food in his pocket, written on a closet wall, and wondered whether anyone would ever truly care about him, I could see how much of that childhood I was still carrying.
But I could also see that those experiences had influenced the kind of man I wanted to become.
I couldn't change what had happened.
I couldn't go back and give that little boy a different childhood.
But I could make choices about what I would do with the life I had today.
I could forgive.
I could learn.
I could listen.
I could help.
And I could keep moving forward with God.
My blueprint was still being drawn.
There were pieces of the puzzle I hadn't found yet.
And perhaps that was the lesson.
I didn't need to see the whole staircase.
I needed to take the next step.
That night, sitting on my bed with my journal, I began considering a nursing home.
Just another place.
Another opportunity.
Another door.
Or was it?
I had spent so much of my young life trying to understand why certain people had come into my story.
Now I was beginning to wonder about something different.
What if the next person God brought into my life wasn't there to change my story?
What if I was being given an opportunity to become part of theirs?
And perhaps that's a question worth asking yourself, too.
When someone crosses your path who is struggling, do you see only the circumstances they're in?
Or do you take a moment to consider the story they've lived, the battles you cannot see, and the difference your compassion might make?
I didn't have all the answers.
But I was ready to keep walking.
And the next door I was considering would lead me toward a world I had not yet experienced.
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Author's Note — A True-Life Testimony
This story is based on the real-life experiences, personal memories, reflections, and testimony of Jeffrey Badders.
It is a work of nonfiction. The people, circumstances, and events described are presented from the author's recollections. Dialogue is based on his remembered conversations and testimony, rather than independently verified transcripts. Some details, including other people's private thoughts, exact reactions, and what happened to them afterward, are unknown and have not been invented.
AI assistance was used to help organize, write, and edit the author's testimony into a readable narrative. AI did not independently witness these events and was not used as a source of invented life experiences.
The purpose of this testimony is to share authentic experiences, lessons, compassion, faith, and hope while respecting the dignity of the people whose lives intersected with the author's journey.
Written collaboratively by Jeffrey Badders with AI writing and editorial assistance.
Inspiring Hearts 4 Ever — True-Life Stories.