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Keep On Smiling

A few years ago, I wrote a Cuppa Joy about Jaden Hayes—a six-year-old boy who began a campaign in 2015 to give away small toys to strangers, simply to lift their spirits. His story was later shared by Steve Hartman on a CBS “On the Road” segment, and it touched hearts across the country. Jaden was only four when his father passed away, and not yet six when his mother died in her sleep. Grief came early and heavily to him, and yet, somehow, it opened him rather than closing him.

His sadness made him especially aware of the sadness in others. Because he found it hard to see people hurting, he decided to do something about it. With the help of his aunt, who became his guardian, he bought small toys and handed them out to people he passed on the streets of Savannah, Georgia. It wasn’t a grand plan or an organized effort. It was simply a child moving through the world with an open heart, choosing to bring a little light wherever he could.

Recently, I found myself wondering what had become of him. By now, he must be sixteen or seventeen. I went looking, expecting to find an update—some glimpse into how his life had unfolded. But I didn’t find one. And maybe that’s the point. His story didn’t need a sequel. He had already done his work—giving away thousands of small toys and sharing thousands of smiles, touching people he would never meet.

Revisiting his story reminded me of a simple “game” I began playing several years ago—one that has since become a habit. I decided that whenever I passed someone—on the street, in an office hallway, standing in line—I would meet their eyes and smile. Not in a big or exaggerated way, just a simple acknowledgment: I see you. Most of the time, the result was a smile in return. Not always, but often enough to keep me going.

One person who really tested my smiling game stands out in my memory. Her name was Hazel, and she worked in the hospital cafeteria where I was employed at the time. I never did learn much about Hazel or her story. Our encounters were always brief—her with a spoon or a ladle, me with a tray and a plate.

She was the very definition of grumpy. She did not smile. Not at anyone. Not ever. She would look up, take your plate, serve the food, and move on to the next person with the same steady, unsmiling expression. No warmth, no small talk, no exchange.

So, of course, I made it my quiet mission to get her to smile. Each day, I would step into line, meet her eyes, and offer that same simple smile. And each day, she met me with the same expression in return. No shift. No softening. Nothing at all—at least not right away. It took time.

But I kept at it. And one day, something changed. I saw it—a flicker at first, then a real smile, reflected back to me. It didn’t happen all at once, and it certainly wasn’t dramatic. There were no headlines, no applause. Just a softening. A recognition. A small connection that grew, quietly and steadily.

I’ve been thinking about that lately, especially in a time when so many of the faces we see in the news are filled with anger or fear. That’s often what rises to the surface—the stories that pull us toward division and overwhelm. Sadness, fear, and anger have a way of spreading, too. And it’s often that kind of news that draws the most attention.

Yet, alongside all of that, there are those heartfelt moments. Some of them make the news—peace marches, small acts of courage, a child offering a toy to a stranger. But many of them don’t. A woman in a cafeteria who eventually, slowly, smiles. A brief exchange between strangers. A moment of connection that leaves no record but matters all the same.

It doesn’t take knowing someone’s story to offer a smile. It just takes caring. There are many Jadens in this world, quietly doing their work. We cannot track or measure the impact of a warm smile, a moment of care, a simple word of validation. We are not alone in the gentle work of making this world better, one smile at a time.

There’s even science behind this simple act. When we smile—even when we don’t quite feel like it—our bodies respond. Stress begins to ease, mood lifts, and connection chemicals like oxytocin are released. Something in us softens. And it doesn’t stop there. Smiles are contagious. We are wired for it. One smile can ripple outward in ways we may never fully see or understand.

Many of us, like Jaden, find our own ways of sending something small out into the world—simple acts of kindness, offered without fanfare. For me, I like giving something from my kitchen like cookies or sourdough. Or giving something I’ve made by hand. Jaden gave away small toys. Over the years, I’ve made and given away more than 250 dolls and stuffed animals. It has become one of my favorite ways to offer something tangible—a small bit of comfort, something soft to hold.

Many of the soft toys have been shared through nonprofit organizations, which means I don’t get to meet the child who receives them. Because of privacy restrictions, I place them in the hands of managers and case workers instead. They are the ones who witness the smiles of the children, while I am blessed with the smiles of those entrusted with passing the gift along.

Every now and then, with permission, I receive a photo—a glimpse of a child holding something I made, eyes lit up, arms wrapped around it. But most of the time, I never see that moment. Most of what we offer in this world will never circle back for us to witness. Some smiles we see. Some we don’t. Smile and give anyway.

I still practice my smiling game. It’s so simple to do. Just my way of lighting up my little corner. And maybe that’s what Jaden understood all along. One of the simplest ways to ease sadness is to send out a smile—just one smile meeting another.

As Louis Armstrong reminds us, “When you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you….So keep on smiling.”