My husband's father died suddenly in January. His death came as a shock to everyone, but it wasn't the only surprise. Many of us were amazed to learn the unfolding story of how generously he had given to others.

The physical distances between us kept visits infrequent and we knew little of his day to day life. It turned out he as was deeply loved by those in his present as in his past. Numbers of people told us, "he was always there for us when we needed him." He was a man who loved to give, but cared little for receiving thanks. His kind acts were done with an air of mystery. One woman spoke of how he'd visited her in the hospital, carrying with him a cookbook. He instructed her to go through pages he'd marked and choose her three favorite soups. When she returned from the hospital, he delivered her the meals she herself had chosen.

While sorting through his possessions, it became evident that his most treasured item was a box full of photos and letters from grandchildren. It was as if, by leaving this, he gave a last message of comfort, letting all of us know how he'd understood and esteemed our love for him.

Last month we attended a memorial service for him where everyone shared stories of his life. There were many testimonials of his humble good will. His wife told me that months after he died, she found a complete list of all the people who serviced their home; plumbers, carpenters, and more were carefully noted with phone numbers and he'd hidden the list in a place she was sure to find it.

In a small box of mementos we found yellowed copies of newspaper articles about how he'd defeated world class swimmers in his last year of college. He never spoke about the event, he was too unassuming. He was a man who found pleasure in giving for its own sake.

The day following the memorial service, my husband's brother became so ill he had to be driven home for what turned out to be a hospital stay. So great was his pain that the decision was made quickly and he and his wife decided to leave their children in the good hands of seven aunts and uncles who adore them. We all felt the complete pleasure of being needed and being able to give. And I couldn't help but think about his father and think of how his seeds had been planted in all of us.

I remembered earlier this year how impressed I'd been with staff at a Regency Hotel. It's miserable to run into problems when you travel and my style of travel is usually limited to decrepit hotel rooms where you're left to your own survival strategies if a problem occurs. There I was in Chicago for the first time, not knowing a soul, and three people bent over backwards to take care of me, a complete stranger. I was overwhelmed by their kindnesses which felt far above the expectations of their jobs.

I found a quiet restaurant where I sipped coffee and spent an hour writing of their exemplary actions. The coffee, slowing down, and praising the goodnesses shown me were equally luxurious. It comforted me to be able to write about their goodness as I documented the fact that the world does have people who make little differences all the time and find pleasure in caring for others. Like them, and like my father-in-law, I wanted to find for myself that same pleasure in giving. When I returned home I baked them ginger cookies and sent them off. I delighted in speaking about the experience for a long time after. It made a great anecdote.

Several weeks ago I began reading Richard Carlson's Don't Sweat the Small Stuff...and it's all small stuff (Hyperion, $9.95). This small books prescribes hints of living in one page doses. Sometimes the writing is a little jargonish, but each piece does seem to speak to me in some way. Number 8 is titled "Do Something Nice for Someone Else - and Don't Tell Anyone About It". The author speaks of the way givers secretly seek the approval of others and "while all acts of kindness are inherently wonderful, there is something even more magical about doing something thoughtful, but mentioning it to no one, ever."

I thought about my father-in-law's acts of kindness; how many of them were done quietly, without acclaiming himself, or his deed. I thought about my giving and couldn't remember a time I'd given and not spoken of it to anyone and I felt he'd quietly given me one last gift.