Last week, the Newby-ginnings warehouse was packed beyond recognition. Furniture, clothing, and housewares were piled high, overflowing into the walkways and making it impossible—and unsafe—for our volunteers to work. I had to make the difficult decision to halt all donations for the week so that our team could catch up and process the mountain of goods.

We had to turn away car after car, truck after truck, and trailer after trailer full of valuable donations, simply because we didn’t have the room.

Throughout the week, our amazing volunteers kept coming to me, asking if I could speak with frustrated donors, explain the situation, and help ease their disappointment. Our donors are incredible people—they go out of their way to give to us because it matters deeply to them that everything at Newby-ginnings is free to Veterans, active-duty service members, and Gold Star families. It stings for them when we have to ask them to come back another time.

By the end of the week, I’d already had several difficult conversations. Then another donor arrived—this time with a fully loaded truck. Despite our volunteers explaining the situation, the donor insisted on speaking with me. He asked me to take a look at what he had brought, and honestly, the items were fantastic—box fans, a carpet cleaner, high-quality shop lights, and even a brand-new wheelchair.

I felt terrible, but I explained the rule—it was my rule—and I couldn’t break it, no matter how great the donations were. I told him, sincerely, that I understood if he had to take his donations elsewhere. He seemed to accept that he might have to do that.

But then I remembered something.

Just that morning, I’d passed by the medical room and noticed we didn’t have a single wheelchair in stock. I thought to myself, I could take this one wheelchair straight into the medical room—no need for it to pass through the warehouse—and technically, I wouldn’t be breaking my rule.

I asked him if we could at least take the wheelchair. He was thrilled to donate it. I wheeled it right into the medical room, quietly relieved.

About an hour later, as I was walking through the lobby, I saw a disabled Veteran pushing that same wheelchair out to his car. His cane was resting on the seat. I smiled and said, “Isn’t that a beautiful wheelchair? It just came in.”

He looked at me and said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“This is what we came here for today. It fits me perfectly. Now I can go with my granddaughter to Silverwood tomorrow.”

That entire week, we’d turned away countless donations. But I accepted that one thing. That one wheelchair. And because of it, a Veteran got to go to Silverwood with his granddaughter.

Thanks to the Newby-verse.