What is a Good Beet?

I don’t know what Good Beet is yet.

I once imagined it as a kind of digital Pay It Forward—a place where people could record small acts of kindness. Each act could be traced backward and forward, mapped visually, telling the quiet story of how goodness moves through the world in ordinary hands.

I wasn’t sure how to begin something like that. I told my younger sister one idea: a QR code people could pass along, inviting whoever received it to share what had been done for them and what they chose to do next. The goodness would ripple outward, one story at a time.

I told her my dramatic starting point would be to give a stranger in a grocery store $100 and the code—no instructions, no pressure, no explanation.

She laughed at me.

A few weeks later, at 6:45 a.m., I was in the drive-thru at our local Moxie Java, still disheveled from hot yoga, buying coffee for my family’s Wednesday coffee day. I was fiddling with my phone when a woman walked up to my open window.

I looked up and she extended her hand. Inside it was a crisp five-dollar bill.

“I just saw you sitting here,” she said, “and I wanted to give you this and wish you a wonderful day.”

I was so startled that I’m not sure I declined politely. I think I said, “Are you sure?” She insisted. I thanked her and said something I don’t usually say to strangers: Bless you.

Between that moment and the pickup window, my mind spiraled.

Why me?

Was this random—or not random at all?

Was I supposed to do something with this?

Was I being tested?

Was I meant to be a “Good Beet”?

I put the bill in the center console. When I paid and the barista asked if I wanted to leave a tip, I glanced at it again. Should I get rid of this now? I wondered. Should I offload the responsibility so I don’t have to figure out what to do with it?

I tipped on my card, but not five dollars. A half-kindness, I told myself. I would decide later.

On the drive home, one of the four coffees tipped over. I watched it in slow motion, convinced I could still save it. The lid stayed on—until it didn’t. Espresso spilled across the floor.

In that minute, I wondered whose coffee it was. If it was my daughter’s, would I go back out immediately to replace it? Of course I would. Then I realized she wouldn’t even be awake for hours, and I caught myself thinking maybe I could go later.

When I got home, I learned it was mine. And I felt instantly ashamed that I had mentally delayed her comfort while protecting my own.

I delivered the remaining coffees, returned to the truck, and drove three minutes to the other Moxie. I pulled the five-dollar bill from the console and thought, She told you to have a wonderful day. No use crying over spilled milk—or espresso.

Did she somehow foresee the spill? Was the bill meant to be passed on immediately?

I don’t think so.

I think it was meant for me.

And maybe that’s the point. Goodness isn’t a transaction or a relay race. It isn’t something you’re required to redistribute perfectly or immediately. Goodness is something you carry. Something that can move through you when you’re ready—and sometimes, something you simply need to receive.

Maybe it wasn’t selfish to keep it. Maybe it was human.

I wish I knew who that woman was. I wish I could tell her that her small, unprompted kindness stayed with me far longer than the coffee did.

And maybe that’s what Good Beet is—not a platform yet, not a plan—but a way of noticing how goodness already moves among us, quietly, imperfectly, and exactly when we need it most.