After a car crash left 14-year-old Collin Smith paralyzed, doctors told him he had a 20 percent chance of finishing high school. The opportunity to attend college seemed even slimmer. Yet eight years later, Collin earned a bachelor of arts degree. He achieved the nearly impossible--with the help of a kind and generous man five decades his senior.

Emest Greene and his wife attended the same church as Collin and his parents did. The Creenes had moved to the area just nine months earlier. But when Emest heard about Collin' s accident and the fact that his parents would not be able to care full-time for him, he approached Collin's parents with the idea that he looked after the boy while they were at work. The Smiths gratefully accepted.

Emest sought training to care for Collin and then began arriving early on weekday mornings. He would help Collin get out of bed, wash, dress and have breakfast. Then he' d drive Collin to and from school. Then, while the two waited for one of Collin's parents to get home, "We played lot of Monopoly," says Emest with a laugh. At first, the age difference was a challenge but they learned to compromise. "Older folks are just older versions of you," says Collin. "Same people. great stories."

Some days were better than others. "He can't do for himself, so he can be demanding," says Emest. But he attests that Collin's strong will got him through tough times.

After graduation, Collin was accepted to nearby High Point University. Emest accompanied him to every class. On graduation day, Emest received an honorary degree in humanities.

"I was floored, "he says.

Collin wasn't surprised, however. "Emest is a godly example of the way a man should live-calm, modest," he says.

One day, when I was working as a psychologist(心理学家) in England，a boy showed up in my office. It was David. He kept walking up and down restlessly, his face pale, and his hands shaking slightly. His head teacher had referred him to me. “This boy has lost his family,” he wrote. “He is understandably very sad and refuses to talk to others, and I'm

very worried about him. Can you help?”

I looked at David and showed him to a chair. How could I help him? There are problems psychology doesn’t have the answer to, and which no words can describe. Sometimes the best thing one can do is to listen openly and sympathetically.

The first two times we met, David didn't say a word. He sat there, only looking up to look at the children's drawings on the wall behind me. I suggested we play a game of chess. He nodded. After that he played chess with me every Wednesday afternoon -- in complete silence and without looking at me. It's not easy to cheat in chess, but I admit I made sure David won once or twice.

Usually, he arrived earlier than agreed, took the chess board and pieces from the shelf and began setting them up before I even got a chance to sit down. It seemed as if he enjoyed my company. But why did he never look at me?

"Perhaps he simply needs someone to share his pain with," I thought. "Perhaps he senses that I respect his suffering.” Some months later, when we were playing chess, he looked up at me suddenly.

"It’s your turn," he said.

After that day, David started talking. He got friends in school and joined a bicycle club. He wrote to me a few times about his biking with some friends, and about his plan to get into university. Now he had really started to live his own life.

Maybe I gave David something. But I also learned that one -- without any words -- can reach out to another person. All it takes is a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a friendly touch, and an ear that listens.Ziyuanku.com

I go to a gym in west London, always unwillingly. Exercise is too exhausting and boring. Always was. At school I made believe that I had headaches and parental notes too, to get out of PE classes and compulsory games. Now, twice a week, I dutifully get on cycling machines and other equipment and make myself work out for an hour. To get through the difficult hour, I people-watched: young and old, fit and unfit and Clayton Rose, one of the instructors.

Clayton is a personal trainer not only to body perfectionists, but to people who are mentally and physically disabled, the obese and hopeless. He treats them all the same. I have witnessed him listening keenly to a middle-aged working-class woman who goes on and on about her life, holidays, everything. Slim and attractive now, she was once so heavy that she was in a wheelchair. I have seen him calm down a young man with Tourette's syndrome(抽动症)and get him on a treadmill. I have also watched him pushing and coaching strong, cool men.

Clayton was shocked when I said I wanted to write about him. “Why? You know I'm not educated? I'm not clued up about politics and all that. Just an ordinary guy.”

He grew up in Twickenham, where his dad worked in a timber yard, his mum in an office. After college, the young man got into personal training and found his work. One of his best friends got seriously ill and was given months to live. Clayton put him on a program that kept him alive for almost five years: “I don't earn much, but I love my work; training and talking really helps people who don't have confidence, who are lonely, afraid, sick. Lots of people can't step into a gym. They need someone they can trust, someone who will be on their side.

The gym recently updated its equipment. The flashy new stuff confuses and upsets disabled customers. Me too. The private firm running these centers made decisions without considering these needs. Clayton is managing the chaos with grace and strength. Last week, when a young woman in a wheelchair started sobbing loudly, he calmed her down, restored her dignity, superhumanly contained his anger.

One of his colleagues thinks Clayton's “a legend”. He is, and doesn't know it—a rare thing in this age of extreme narcissism(自恋)and monetized(货币化) everything.