On the way to Christmas, I met a 77-year-old man dressed in what appeared to be fleece pajamas; he walked along Fallsway with a cane and spoke of the need to “protect the angels.”

I met a much younger man in a wheelchair; his legs had been amputated below the knees, and he was homeless.

I met charitable people from Harford County; they had come to Baltimore to hand out Christmas stockings and modest gifts to men and women arriving for lunch at Our Daily Bread.

And I met Shelley Grant, who told a story about the kindness of a stranger that seemed too good to be true.

Or, let me put it this way: I was inclined to believe her story until she added that the police officer involved “was A.I.” That threw me off, a quirky suggestion that the officer who had helped her get home was a creation of artificial intelligence.

But that just might have been Shelley Grant’s way of saying she was surprised by her good fortune. Maybe, acutely aware of the times we live in and the distinctly uncharitable nature of our cynical president-elect, she has come to expect little from her fellow Americans. It’s a common condition these days.

Still, here’s the story:

Driving back to Parkville from Johns Hopkins Hospital last Thursday night, Grant ran out of gas on Perring Parkway at McClean Boulevard, about three miles from her house. It was an hour or so after midnight, when the temperature was about 20.

Grant, who is 67, had no money. In fact, she said, after paying bills, including the cost of repairs to her home, she usually has little left from her fixed monthly income.

So she sat in her car and prayed. “I’m a Jehovah’s Witness,” she said, “and I called on Jehovah … and [soon] behind me was a police car, a police SUV.”

A 23-year-old Baltimore County officer, Brandon Urbas, approached her and offered to bring Grant enough gas to get to the nearest service station. And that’s what he did. “He came back with two gallons of gas and put it in my car,” she said. “Then he said, ‘We’re gonna start your car and take it over to this gas station on the right and fill it.”

And that’s what Urbas did, with a tap of his credit card on the gas pump. “That brought tears to my eyes,” Grant said.

The young officer, who recently completed his third year on the county force, went beyond her expectations, a stranger (a real one, not an A.I. one) showing some genuine kindness on the way to Christmas.

I happened to meet Shelley Grant on Monday in Baltimore as she accepted gifts from a family assembled on Fallsway behind a hooded pickup truck loaded to the roof, and above the roof, with Christmas stockings filled with necessities and treats.

“We do this every year,” said Phil Serrell, who lives in Harford County and worships at Lighthouse Church in Street. “We started six years ago, with 30 stockings. This year, we have 1,600. … It just came out of me, remembering from my childhood, having a stocking when I woke up on Christmas.”

With Serrell were members of the Jourdan family, also members of Lighthouse Church. They handed stockings filled with toiletries and other items — cookies, sandwiches and drinks, socks, gloves and hats — to men and women near the entrance to Our Daily Bread.

“We just come down every year and we don’t know where the Lord brings us,” Serrell said. “This is our fourth day out this year. … We just drive the streets and look for people.”

Serrell and his volunteers spend the year accumulating items for the annual giving tour. “This has become our Christmas, our tradition and our legacy,” he said. “We’ve been given so much, we’ve got to give back.”

One of the many people accepting the Christmas stockings was Gavin Vaughn, who at 38 has lost his legs to diabetes and gets around in a powered wheelchair. He currently resides in the city’s shelter on Fallsway.

“I’ve been there five or six months,” he said. “I’m trying to get out.”

He applied for housing assistance. His hope for the new year is to live independently in a place that’s affordable — provided the Republican billionaires and millionaires in Washington do not prevail in cutting rental subsidies.

As for the man in the pajamas: His name was Charles Moore, and I had been mistaken about his attire. He wore a multi-colored, two-piece sweatsuit of fleece, well protected, he said, against the cold.

As we walked along Fallsway, I asked about his life. At one point in a long roll of stories, Moore held out his large, strong hands. Decades ago, he said, he had trained to be a boxer with the late and legendary Mack Lewis at his gym in East Baltimore.

“My father died when I was 13,” Moore said. He learned to fight “to protect the angels.” The angels, he explained, were his seven sisters.

I imagined this 77-year-old man as that long-ago boy feeling responsible for his siblings after losing their father. Year after year, and year after year, we go through so much — some of us more than others — on the long way to Christmas.