This weekend, I came across two new ways to do good, touch people’s lives, and make the world a better place.

I took a photo of a dying man for his family to keep and remember him; I took a picture of a couple that had endured the frightening ordeal of major surgery (his) together and whose love for one each was all over their faces.

Neither thing was a big deal, especially when compared to things other people do, Yet it touched two lives in meaningful ways, three if you could help me. I’ve learned that you don’t need to be a hero to be a good human being.

You don’t need to save a baby from a burning building or knock down a crazed shooter at a Wal-Mart as the real heroes do. I lean to the small acts of great kindness that sometimes yield great rewards.

Both of my good deeds recently were things I might not have done – and rarely did – in the past, not understanding how much each item did to ground me, enrich me, and lift me.

I was too entangled in my troubles.

I never believed I could do much good for other people or that I had enough time or courage to try.

It’s a beautiful habit to grow into; it’s the best thing I’ve ever done for myself, an element of my kind of revolution.

And yes, doing good really is good for me.

Doing good is one of the most selfish acts human beings can commit; it is a gift to the giver as much or more as for anyone else. It took me a lifetime to grasp this, although wise and gifted men had known it for thousands of years, even longer.

I got two gifts in recent days.

The dying man was in the final stages of ravaging cancer, and his children were scattered all over the country and the world. There was no time for them all to get home.

His wife called me and said her husband had agreed to be photographed so his children might remember their father at the edge of life, even though he couldn’t be with him. The rest of the family said they would like that.

Also, they all agreed they loved their father as much at the end of his life as they did at the beginning of theirs. The friend knew I had done hospice work with my therapy dogs, and she also knew I was a photographer.

Up until a few years ago, I would have said no. This is not what I do.

I’m not a professional portrait photographer who earns his living taking photographs of weddings, proud parents, or dying people. My pictures are for me, Maria, my blog, and the people who read them. I’m not out for hire, and I worried if I did this for one person, I’d be asked over and over again.

There are all sorts of reasons not to help people, and it’s essential at times to say no. I didn’t do it when I was a hospice volunteer; why now?

But this time, I said yes without hesitation. I’ve learned to trust my instincts and follow them. And I want to put my new and expensive Leica to good and meaningful use when I can.

No one can help everyone, and I don’t wish to photograph the dying every day. But I’ve developed some good instincts about when to try or to say yes.

I have healed a great deal and learned a great deal; my anger has taken the path of much of my hair and mostly gone away. But first, it left to be better and more human.

We all hate the turmoil and conflict roiling the country, but I have to admit that it was good for me. All this anger, all this suffocating argument. I knew it would eat me alive if I didn’t come up with something different.

This impulse altered the course of my life.  I resolved not to spend the rest of my life – I am indeed getting older – in argument and dread. I wasn’t going to argue about good; I was going to do some. The turmoil changed me, so did the hostility in the air and online.

I went to this man’s house, and as a former hospice volunteer, I know what people look like shortly before they die.  He was close. He was very near death. He was worn, thin, and his eyes were dilated, perhaps from morphine. There was a familiar smell to the room. But he wanted to die in grace, and he did.

The father was gracious and charming at moments and suddenly fell asleep.

He would wake up with a start, then fall asleep again. I’ve had some of the most beautiful and uplifting conversations of my life doing hospice work. It is sad, but not only that. It can be beautiful and inspiring. In many cases, people who call hospice have come to terms with death; they are often relieved to let go.

The room was filled with the detritus of death – a hospital bed, pills, pillows, and soft pillow for his knees and back. This man was grateful to me for coming; he had read one of my books and was curious to know where I was living now.

Looking at him, I regretted not having taken more photos of the beautiful, even radiant people I had met with my therapy dogs, Red, Izzie, and now Zinnia. I did take some. I did a  Hospice Journal for a while, then backed off. I think it was too much for me.

The man knew who I was and was a follower of Thomas Merton and often wrote about him.

We talked about spirituality, family, and death until I saw him getting tired, and then his wife came over and gave him a warm hug and kissed him on his cheek. I took a photo of them.  Their love and connection was very beautiful thing to see. I hope I still have it when it’s my time.

One of his last days, I could tell from watching the hospice nurse and listening to his breathing.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes then, thanked me again before he slept. He died two days later, and his wife called to thank me and tell me how much they both loved the picture I had taken. It meant a great deal to them, especially to those in the family who couldn’t be present.

It had gone all over the world.

They had e-mailed it to their children, who were all grateful to see what turned out to be their parent’s last kiss. As a photographer, I didn’t do much; I just pointed my Leica, my emotional photo machine, adjusted the exposure for the low light,  and pressed down the shutter.

What a simple, easy and meaningful thing to do. Learning to say yes was as vital to me as learning to open me up.

A few days later, a friend called me, the spouse of someone who had undergone major surgery, as I had in 2014. The couple had had a difficult time; there were numerous problems and setbacks, as there often are. But his recovery and his hard work continues, and he is getting better all the time. For the following months, my friend and had worked hard day and night to take care of her partner.

It had been an exhausting ordeal, but there was a sense now the worst was over, and things were getting better. They wanted to mark that change to a new chapter, a victory of love and commitment.

They wanted me to take a photo of them because they saw the Leica photos on my blog and loved them and because they were coming out of their ordeal and were very much in love with one another and wanted their friends and family to see that.

They wanted to use my photo as a Christmas card. She had been afraid to ask me; she dreamt that I blew up at the suggestion. But I was thrilled with the request.

I said sure and went over. To tell the truth, I was flattered. That was a genuine compliment.

It was late afternoon, and the light was fading, and I asked both of them to come out in the yard.

The thing about portraits is this: if you like the people whose image you are taking, and the chemistry is strong, you will more often than not be happy with the results.

They sat down on a bench and, without prodding, looked at one another most sweetly and gratefully. I know this feeling. They had made it, got through a trial, had much life ahead to look forward to.

You could see how much the two meant to each other and how relieved they were to have come through this trauma together. They knew about my surgery, and we had strong chemistry with one another. They relaxed, an essential thing in portraiture. Good portraits are tied to trust; the subject has to trust me; I have to trust them.

I pushed the shutter and got four photos I loved. They loved them too. The camera caught just what they wanted it to see.

It seemed like such a small t thing, but it was huge to them and the people they wanted to send the photos to. It says a lot more than words.

It is a beautiful thing to bring pleasure and meaning to people with a single picture. It isn’t something I want to do all the time; I’m not a professional photographer in that way. I appreciated finding a new way to do some good and keep my streak going—something good every day, something that touches a life.

The thing is,  doing good is powerful medicine. It lifts the heart, burnishes the soul, brightens the mood, brings a smile. It brushes away hatefulness.

It is not just about what others need, but about what I need. It is as good a medicine as anything any doctor has ever prescribed for me.