There is so much more good in this world than evil, it’s not even close. Here’s proof, from an earlier era.

Many years ago, I was a kid hitchhiking late at night in Nebraska. Two men and a woman in an old, noisome DeSoto picked me up east of Ogallala. I entered a car filled with anger, fear and despair with no opportunity to escape. Two men sat in the front seat. Between them was a revolver and a pint of Jim Beam whiskey. I shared the back seat with a woman about double my age. She had yellow teeth and she was chanting songs I had never heard while swinging her arms above her head from side to side. She straddled my lap and scratched and bit my face while still chanting songs about the devil and Jesus.

The men guzzled the bottle of Beam, cheered at the sick show in the back seat and shot their gun out the windows at road signs and mailboxes. Thirty miles later they turned off on a little dirt road and stopped. I thought I was dead. But the huge man, the driver, said he might be in love with me as he repeatedly hit me in the face and gut. The younger man, while maintaining a grin and a giggle, took my duffel bag and dumped it in the back of the DeSoto. They had me strip off all my clothes—all of them. Then they were gone.

I curled up in a fetal position and cried until the first light of dawn. A big collie found me and led me down a dirt road to a farmhouse. Wrapped in an old, discarded roll of paper and with bleeding feet and face, I entered a porch and knocked on the door.

From the moment the old farm couple opened the door, I felt a love that is rarely bestowed by strangers. In the next 24 hours, I took a warm bath, I slept on a soft bed with cool white linens, I ate a real farmer’s breakfast. The kind couple gave me clothes to wear, a ride into Ogallala and an introduction to a lady who managed a truck stop. Later I discovered, deep in one of the pockets of the borrowed overalls, a rolled up 10 dollar bill.

For two weeks, I worked as a dishwasher/busboy at the truck stop. I bought clothes, met wonderful western townspeople and the bruises, inside and out, began to heal. When I finally hitched a ride with one of the regulars, a trucker headed to Denver, I left with far more than I had lost during my dreadful ride.

That experience, so many years ago, stays with me as a reminder that goodness conquers evil and that I have an opportunity each day to put a little love deep into the pockets of those who may be having a tough day.