Iwas blessed to spend my summer in New York City. As a Pennsylvania native, you can imagine the culture shock of moving from a small town in the Appalachians to a basement apartment just west of Times Square. It was an adventure — a season of opportunity.

Unfortunately, the worst part of concluding an adventure is looking back at the moments that slipped through your fingers.This story is about one of those missed opportunities.

Every day I took the subway home from work. Every day, around 5:25 p.m., I walked out of the 42nd Street subway station. Every day I turned right toward Eighth Avenue, toward my apartment on West 43rd and Ninth. Every day I passed a man sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, staring straight ahead. Every day I passed the man’s dog, lying beside him, often with her head in her owner’s lap. Every day I glanced at the man’s cardboard sign, propped up against the wall beside him. Every day I read a bit more of his scribbled story. Scrawled in Sharpie were the words: “Help. I’m a Sandy victim. I lost everything, and I haven’t been able to get back on my feet since. All I have is my dog Petra. If you can spare anything to feed us, we would appreciate it more than you know.”

Over the course of the summer, I gave the man a couple dollars in change. It wasn’t much, but I didn’t have much to give. Every day, however, I wanted to stop. I wanted to learn his name and provide him with something more valuable than the nickels and dimes of the Times Square tourists. I wanted to give him friendship. At the very least, I wanted to be able to acknowledge him by name as I passed by.

But every day I simply nodded, maybe dropped some change in his empty 7/11 Big Gulp cup and moved along.

As a storyteller, I wanted to know how and why he came to be where he is today. I wanted to know Petra’s story, and I wanted to pet the head of a dog who clearly loves her owner more than a human could ever understand. I wanted to remind the man how lucky he was to have such a faithful companion — a friend who simply craves loyalty rather than comfort and treats. I wanted to know their story. But I missed my opportunity.

I regret that more than you know.

I encourage you to learn from my mistake. Talk to those in need. Sometimes we feel like, because we have no food or money to give, we can be of no assistance. But I don’t think this is the case. Matthew 25 reminds us that the “righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.'”

Sure, I may be a broke college student. Maybe you are as well. Yet we have so much to offer those around us. As storytellers, every moment we miss is one less chance to share one of the greatest gifts of all: the gift of listening. It is an inexpensive, yet invaluable gift to give another person. It is the chance to acknowledge a human life as being something inimitable, something absolutely original. We have the gift of validating their scars and their stories. We have the opportunity to preserve a legacy they may not even know exists.

I want to encourage you this year to “do unto the least of these.” Because you are a storyteller. You have a gift to give.

You are capable of more than you know.