A Saint in the Shadows

I am writing my first book, and I thought I would share the first chapter. I would love our wonderful community's feedback, unfiltered! The book will tell the story of a wonderful humanitarian - my Grandad - Harry Hanks.

In July 2015, I sat in Harry Hanks’ office at his home in Chingford, East London, a week after he had passed away at the age of 92. Harry had lived in that small, terraced house with his wife of 68 years, Doreen, since 1946. They purchased the home for £850.

Harry was my Grandad. And as a child, his office was my favourite place. It was where I felt happiest. It was where I felt most safe. The carpet was worn thin, the wallpaper had faded, and every surface held a pile of books or Harry’s handwritten notepads. The room smelt musky, and it smelt of lavender. Harry used to grow lavender in the front garden, and every summer he would fill hundreds of little cloth bags with the dried flowers, write a personal message of goodwill, and post them through the letterboxes of neighbours.

As I sat in that familiar room, surrounded by traces of his life, I came across an article. It was a testimony from a woman named Helen. In it, she described how she met Harry at one of the lowest points in her life. Her parents had separated when she was seven. By sixteen, she was drinking heavily, smoking weed every day, and living a self-destructive life. She said that meeting Harry changed everything. That he was the first person who truly believed in her, and who made her believe in herself and that her life could be different.

I tried to find Helen, but I couldn’t track her down (clearly lacking in detective skills!) But word of my search spread, and before long, a man in his forties, whom I will call Andrew, reached out to me. He said Harry had saved his lif,e too.

I was lucky to meet Andrew. He spoke plainly, without self-pity. His childhood had been a carousel of foster homes, sixteen in total. He had been taken from his parents at five years old after suffering sexual abuse. The trauma, left untreated, left him carrying a weight of shame that shaped how he saw himself and others. He found it hard to form relationships. He did not trust people. He often fell out with supervisors at work. He said, “Everyone gave up on me, and I didn’t blame them. I was a mess. Well, everyone gave up on me, except Harry.”

At the time they met, Andrew was homeless and addicted to drugs. He encountered Harry on Chingford Mount. “He had this glowing kindness about him,” Andrew said. “He actually listened. He was the first person in years whom I felt I could trust.” Harry, patiently, steadily, step by step, supported Andrew through recovery, into work, and a new life. More than a decade later, Andrew has a good job, a loving relationship, and now supports others who are where he once was. He told me that he has no doubt he would be dead today if not for Harry.

In the years that followed, I heard many more stories like Andrew’s. A mother who had lost her eight-month-old baby to cot death. A young man who had been immersed in a life of crime and drugs. A woman who had suffered unspeakable abuse throughout her childhood. Their experiences were unique, but there was something familiar in the way they spoke. Again and again, I heard the same thing. Harry had been the turning point. The person who walked beside them through the darkness and helped them begin again.

I thought about those people for years. I thought about Harry, my Grandad. What was it about him that allowed him to walk so closely with people through their pain and help them find hope on the other side?

In his book Freedom, Sebastian Junger tells a story that has become a quiet North Star for me, and is at the heart of this book. As a young man, he set out on a week-long hike in Wyoming, looking to escape the predictable life of the American suburbs. Travelling alone with a tent, a sleeping bag, a set of aluminium cookpots, a Swedish-made stove, and a week's worth of food, he was approached one day by a man with wild, matted hair, wearing a filthy union suit shiny with grease.

The man asked where Sebastian was from and how much food he had. Sebastian thought about this carefully. He had plenty of food, and he thought it was obvious the man did not. He was willing to share if someone was truly hungry, but part of him was also afraid he was about to be robbed. Sebastian answered cautiously: "Oh, I just got a little cheese."

The man shook his head and said, "You can’t get to California on just a little cheese. You need more than that." Then he opened his black lunch box and said, "Since I won’t be needing this today, you can have it."

He explained that he lived in a broken-down car and every morning walked three miles to a coal mine outside of town to look for day work. Some days there was work. Some days there wasn’t. That day, there wasn’t. He had seen Sebastian from town and just wanted to make sure he was okay. Sebastian said he had no choice but to take the lunch.

Sebastian writes that he thought about that man for the rest of his life. The man had been kind. But many people are kind. What made him different was that he had taken responsibility for him.

That is what Harry did. He didn’t just offer kindness. He took responsibility for people. And that is what this book is about.

Today, our world feels increasingly divided. Despite all the advances of modern life, something essential has been lost. Our sense of community has frayed. Rates of loneliness, depression, addiction, and alienation continue to rise. Public institutions try to care for the vulnerable, but they can only do so much. The rest of the work belongs to the community. And community, at its heart, is about giving what we can to others, knowing that we are not all weak in the same places. When we offer our strengths, our time, our attention, we hold each other up.

The pace and pressure of modern life can make this feel impossible. It fragments us. It distracts us from our gifts. It tells us that we are not needed. But that is a lie. As Junger says, “Humans don’t mind hardship, in fact, they thrive on it. What they mind is not feeling necessary. Modern society has perfected the art of making people not feel necessary.”

What was so inspiring about Harry was that he had every reason to feel sorry for himself. His life was full of hardships unimaginable to most people in the modern Western world. Yet he never turned bitter, withdrew, or looked back. Instead, he pressed on, and he lived in a way that offered strength and hope to others.

Harry worked in the shadows, in two very real senses.

First, he never sought attention or applause. He did not trumpet his good deeds. He simply did them. Second, he worked with people’s shadows - the hidden, hurting parts of themselves that caused them pain and, sometimes, caused pain to others. These were the parts most people turn away from. But Harry did not. He never gave up. He helped them name what had wounded them. He helped them move toward healing.

Perhaps the most beautiful part of all is this: many of the people he helped are now helping others, without fanfare, without expectation. His light continues, passed from hand to hand.

Harry had a sense of purpose—a deep, consuming love for something beyond himself. When we have this, we can endure almost anything. That is why saints, for all their hardships and imperfections, are often the happiest people. They are the most content. They know that even when things are mess, things are well.

There are many definitions of a saint. I have always loved the one from Saint Teresa of Avila: “A saint is someone who becomes the person they were always meant to be.” In a world designed to make us conform to ideals that are not our own, that becoming takes great courage. That was the original spine of this book: how to become the person you were always meant to be.

But as I listened to the people whose lives Harry touched, I found another definition of a saint: A saint brings out the best in every person they meet. That’s what Harry did. No matter how brief the encounter, people left his presence feeling lighter, hopeful, and somehow more themselves. He made people feel welcome, loved, capable, and quietly reminded them of their worth.

The human condition is often one of anxiety. We are afraid of not getting what we want, and fearful of losing what we have. We cling to ideas, people, ideologies, and possessions, thinking they will save us. We defend them at all costs. But that way of living keeps us trapped. It prevents us from being fully present. It is hard—perhaps impossible—to love others well when we are consumed by fear and attachment.

And yet, among us, there are people who live differently.

If you’ve ever met someone like that, you know it instantly. They are warm. Patient. Kind. They have a quiet contentment. They are not in a rush. They ask questions because they truly want to understand. They give without expectation. They are generous with their attention, their presence, and their time. They almost never talk about themselves. They are the change they wish to see in the world.

I wrote this book to celebrate the life of Harry. And I wrote it as part of our work at The Shining Light Project. Our mission, inspired by Harry, is to encourage and enable people to use their gifts to be a force for good in the world. One of the ways we bring this to life is by telling the stories of people like Harry Hanks. People who worked in the shadows. People who never called themselves saints. People who believed they were ordinary, yet who did saintly things.

Harry took responsibility for people. Not out of obligation, but out of love. Because he understood that his life was not just his own, he was here to show others that they mattered. To remind them that they were more than the sum of their pain. To give them back a sense of meaning. And, perhaps most remarkable of all, he found a way to do it that didn’t make people feel like victims. It made them feel strong.

I hope Harry’s story reminds you that you have a gift the world needs. That wherever you find yourself, whether you feel content, searching, or lost, there is always hope. Sometimes we are the ones who carry the light for others. And sometimes, we are the ones who need it. What my Grandad taught me is that no matter how hard life gets, there is always hope. Give as often as you can. And when you need help, don’t be ashamed to ask for it. We are not meant to do this alone.

I hope you enjoy Harry’s story and that it brings you some light, joy, and hope wherever you are in the world and however you feel.

Thanks for reading, and great blessing. Let your light shine!

Benjamin