The Eye That Sees
A Story by Frank Sumera
The old man sat on the park bench, watching the world move in hurried steps. He had seen it all—trends, technology, and the quiet erosion of things that once mattered. The sun hung low in the sky, golden light spilling over the city like a silent blessing.
A young man approached, holding his phone up, narrating his good deed. “Hey guys, today I’m giving this homeless man a meal,” he said, angling the camera toward a frail figure wrapped in a tattered coat. He handed over the sandwich, flashing a grin for his audience.
The old man sighed. “Would you have done it if no one was watching?”
The influencer lowered his phone, caught off guard. “What?”
“If there were no likes, no shares—would you still give?”
The young man hesitated. “Well… people need to see kindness to be inspired, right?”
The old man nodded. “But the Eye that truly matters already sees.” He tapped his temple, then pointed to the sky. “The Eye of Providence. The Father sees what is done in secret, and that is where true reward lies.”
The young man frowned. “But if I don’t show it, how will people know I’m doing good?”
The old man chuckled. “The greatest acts of love are often invisible. A prayer whispered for a stranger. A sacrifice no one knows about. A kindness done without expectation. That is how you reach your full potential—not through the eyes of men, but through the eyes of God.”
The wind stirred, rustling the trees. The young man looked down at his phone, then back at the old man. Slowly, he put the device away.
“Maybe next time, I’ll just… do it.”
The old man smiled. “Then you will be seen more clearly than ever before.”
And with that, he stood, walking into the fading light, as if he had never been there at all.
Joe’s Challenge to Commandante Felipe “Immortal Technique” Coronel
Joe Jukic sat back in his chair with a controller in his hand, the screen glowing with the gritty streets of the video game The Warriors. On the TV, pixelated gangs were running through the night, trying to survive long enough to make it home. Joe shook his head and laughed.
“Tech,” Joe said, “this game thinks it understands the streets. But the real test isn’t fighting gangs. The real test is feeding people when nobody’s watching.”
Joe paused the game and looked straight at Felipe.
“I got a challenge for you, Commandante Felipe ‘Immortal Technique’ Coronel.”
He pointed at the screen.
“In this game the Warriors fight their way across the city. But in the real world the warriors are the ones walking the streets at night with a backpack full of food, trying to help the forgotten people.”
Joe leaned forward.
“I want you to go out there by yourself. No cameras. No Guerilla News Network. No speeches. Just you.”
“Take a backpack. Fill it with sandwiches, fruit, maybe some soup if you can carry it. Walk the streets and quietly feed the bums that everybody else walks past.”
Joe smirked.
“And bring a pack of cigarettes.”
He held up an imaginary pack between his fingers.
“Not because they’re good for you — but because they’re a peacemaker on the street. A cigarette can calm a man down, start a conversation, break the ice. Sometimes it even suppresses the hunger long enough for someone to think straight.”
Joe shrugged.
“Out there, diplomacy isn’t suits and handshakes. Sometimes diplomacy is a smoke and a sandwich.”
He unpaused the game and the Warriors started running again through the digital city.
“Anyone can talk revolution, Tech.”
Joe glanced back over his shoulder.
“But a real revolutionary can walk the streets alone at night and feed people who can’t pay him back.”
“That’s the mission.”
“No audience. No applause.”
“Just the work.”