Every now and then in the Sunday New York Times, in between the ads for the thousand dollar Gucci ear rings and the million dollar Westchester bungalows, you find something truly priceless.

This story is that something.

It’s a beautifully told tale of an immigrant named Jorge Munoz who drives a bus during the day and, after the sun sets, seeks out the illegals and the out-of-work-barely-legal immigrants who are going for days with little more for a meal than bread. He finds them, and he feeds them.

Here’s a snip:

For many New Yorkers, Thanksgiving is a weekend to indulge in a brief stint of volunteerism at a church or soup kitchen. For Mr. Muñoz, the holiday is just another night devoted to feeding his unofficial flock.

“Every single night, Jorge is here,” said one worker, his leathery face peering out from a hooded sweatshirt. “Doesn’t matter. Rain, thunderstorm, lightning. He do that from his good will, you know.

“He feeds everybody, make the stomach happy,” the worker added. “He’s an angel.”

When Mr. Muñoz’s truck pulled in, several workers pressed their faces to the tinted windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of dinner. Hopping into the back of the truck, Mr. Muñoz began untying steaming containers filled with hot chocolate and foil-covered trays of homemade barbecued chicken. As the workers accepted Styrofoam containers stuffed with hearty portions of chicken and rice, they thanked him as respectfully as if he were a parent, never mind that the 5-foot-2 Mr. Muñoz, with his buzz cut and boyish grin, could pass for 20-something.

“God bless you,” one burly worker said as he dug into his meal. “I haven’t eaten in three days.”

Mr. Muñoz replied with a smile, “You can eat here every day at 9:30.”

The relationship between Mr. Muñoz and many of the men he feeds is personal. “Uribe, you want more coffee?” he asked as he saw a familiar face. “Simon, do you want seconds on this pasta?”

In a way, Mr. Muñoz seems to need these men as much as they need him. His unofficial meal program gives meaning and focus to his life. He is as eager to help his motley clientele as they are to be helped.

“I know these people are waiting for me,” he said of the emotions that fuel his quixotic and perhaps obsessive crusade. “And I worry about them. You have to see their smile, man. That’s the way I get paid.”

The operation through which these workers have been fed without charge began three years ago and is financed mainly from the $600 a week Mr. Muñoz earns driving a school bus.

His life revolves almost entirely around preparing and serving the meals. All the cooking is done in the small house with gray vinyl siding where he lives with his 66-year-old mother, Doris Zapata, and his sister, Luz, who works for the Social Security Administration.

He telephones home from the road a dozen times a day to plan the menus. He has few friends, and no hobbies.

“I haven’t seen a movie in two years,” Mr. Muñoz said one afternoon in his kitchen as he boiled milk for hot chocolate. “But sometimes I listen to music when I’m driving.”

His sister described the situation more bluntly. “He got no life,” she said, looking awkwardly away from her brother as she stirred a boiling pot of lentils. “But he got a big heart. He really does.”

See how these Christians love one another?

Take a moment and read the whole thing and whisper a prayer of gratitude for all the Jorge Munozes of the world.

Photo: by Oscar Hidalgo for the New York Times