I learned what it means to give when I was 22. Sure, I thought I knew before then. My parents had raised my brother and I with the philosophy that the first 10-percent of any money we made went to the church, the second 10-percent went to savings, and the rest of the money was ours to spend or give away accordingly.

But when I was 22, I met a homeless man named Fred who taught me what giving really means. Fred trudged through the glass double doors of the church where I worked one cold and snowy day in rural Pennsylvania. He was thin; his beard and hair were scraggly and unkempt. His face, hands, and ears were a wind-chapped red. His denim jacket had ripped-out elbows and he wore it over a long, beige raincoat that had seen better days. His canvas deck shoes were a dark gray, far from the white they had once been. His clothing was literally frozen.