It happened on a cold day, somewhere along the stretch of Interstate 495. I was on my way to Walter Reed Military Hospital for a routine check-up when my front left tire suddenly blew. The car lurched, the steering wheel fought me, and I eased it over to the shoulder.

I’ve changed my share of tires in my life, so I figured I could handle it. The lug nuts were stiff, my hands already numb from the chill, but I managed to get the car jacked up and a few bolts loosened. It was tedious, tiring work, but nothing I hadn’t done before.

And then a car slowed.

It pulled over just ahead of me. A man climbed out. I noticed something immediately—the unmistakable stride of someone walking on an artificial leg.

He walked toward me with a determined look and said he recognized me. His name was Anthony Maggert. He’d been working as a civilian in Afghanistan when tragedy struck, costing him his leg. Yet here he was, standing tall, smiling, and offering help to a stranger on the side of the highway.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t second-guess. He simply reached for the lug wrench and went to work, finishing the job I had started while I packed up the rest of the tools. We talked as he tightened the bolts. He told me pieces of his story—loss, recovery, and resilience. Stories I’ve heard before, but they never stop humbling me.

When the job was done, we laughed at the coincidence: we were both headed to Walter Reed. We shook hands, said our quick goodbyes, and hurried off to make our appointments. I didn’t even catch his full information—just the memory of a man who had already given enough to this country, yet still stopped to give a little more.

Later that evening, my phone lit up. A message.

“Gen. Powell,” he wrote, “I hope I never forget today because I’ll never forget reading your books. You were always an inspiration, a leader and statesman. After 33 years in the military, you were the giant whose shoulders we stood on to carry the torch, and now it’s tomorrow’s generation who must do the same. —Anthony Maggert”

I read it twice, then a third time. And I’ll be honest—it touched me deeply. Here was a man who had sacrificed so much, thanking me. Yet all I could think was how grateful I was to him.

That brief encounter on the highway reminded me of what this country can be at its best. Not the shouting matches, not the endless debates, not the divisions that seem to grow louder every day. But moments like this—one American helping another, quietly, humbly, without asking for anything in return.

Thank you, Anthony. You made my day. You reminded me of what matters. And you reminded me that our strength as a nation doesn’t just come from the big moments in history—it comes from the small ones on the side of the road, when someone chooses to stop and help.

We need less yelling. More helping. More Anthony Maggerts.

And if I ever find myself doubting the goodness of people, I’ll remember the day a man with an artificial leg pulled over in the cold, grabbed a wrench, and showed me what true American spirit looks like.