Small Acts of Kindness

This lesson was taught from the driver’s seat of our family car: a 1982 VW Diesel Rabbit, two-door hatchback. Let me paint you a picture of this automotive marvel. It officially seated five people, but our family had six. Apparently seatbelts weren’t really a thing back then, because I spent most of my childhood in what our family called “the back back” – officially known as the hatchback area, where I entered and exited through the trunk like some kind of automotive contortionist. All of this powered by a whopping 62 horsepower.

But here’s where it gets interesting. Dad would stop to help any and all strangers with flat tires, breakdowns, or whatever trouble they faced. And what would he do first? Offer them a ride! Now remember, I’m already in the trunk. Where exactly were these stranded people going to sit? No problem – “Rick, jump in the back. Marci, climb in the back back with JJ. This nice person can sit on the hump between the gear shift.”

Oh wait, there’s little Steve Jolly who needs a ride too? Plenty of room! Just lay across everyone’s laps and put your feet out the window. That car built for five would end up looking like a clown car with nine people, all 62 horses straining to push us up the mountain. We frequently got passed and mocked by cyclists as we inched up hills, Dad having to build momentum on the flats just to carry us over the steeper bits.

But Dad was never ashamed of that little car – in fact, he’d brag about it. “How many miles does your car have on it? Oh, 25,000? I drove that yesterday on one tank and haven’t changed the tires or brakes ever!”

Really, Dad? Tires and brakes? As an unseatbelted passenger crammed in the trunk, I believe I should have some input in this decision.

Our own safety notwithstanding, these car rides became opportunities to share stories and meet people. My dad would smile whenever he was helping someone and was genuinely interested in hearing the person’s story.

The Lesson I Didn’t Know I Was Learning

Dad never said, “Well, we’re already packed in here, so we’d better not stop.” He never did the math on whether we had the bandwidth to help. He just stopped. Every time.

And here’s what I didn’t fully appreciate as a kid cramped in the back back: those moments weren’t distractions from our family time—they were our family time. Dad was showing us, in real-time, what mattered. Not the comfort of the journey. Not the efficiency of the route. Not what other people thought of our overloaded clown car. What mattered was seeing someone who needed help and having the capacity to provide it.

The Economics of Generosity

People remembered the guy who stopped to help. They told their friends. They looked for opportunities to return the favor. Dad wasn’t calculating ROI on his kindness, but if you ran the numbers over decades, those small investments in other people paid dividends in ways that couldn’t have been predicted.

At Abacus, we think about client relationships the same way. The phone call you take when you don’t have time. The extra explanation you provide when someone’s confused. The personal check-in that has nothing to do with their portfolio. These aren’t billable hours. They’re not part of any formal service agreement. But they’re everything.

Because financial planning is all about trust. And trust isn’t built through the big moments. It’s built through the accumulated weight of small acts, consistently performed, over time. It’s these small acts of kindness that constitute what I mean by “the long game” – the name of my Substack – and what accumulates into something larger than their individual acts.

It’s stopping to help the stranger with a flat tire. It’s making room for one more person even when you’re already full. It’s taking pride in doing the right thing even when it’s not the easiest or most impressive thing.

And it’s maintaining that smile—that genuine joy in being able to help—no matter how cramped the back back gets.