To some he's a hero of great proportions. He rescues damsels in distress, saves children from abuse, counsels parents of unruly teenagers, solves mysteries, gives a man in need a helping hand, carries elderly ladies groceries, and puts the "bad" guys where they belong. Sure. He doesn't fly through the air or have the strength of Hercules, yet somehow he manages heroism without such abilities.
To some he's nothing more than a public menace. He interferes when personal disputes get out of hand, when domestic violence occurs, or when someone gets assaulted with a weapon. It's dangerous work this . . . heroism/menacing and it would be a lot easier with the wisdom of Solomon.
To the neighbors, he's Andy Taylor of Mayberry. They flock when he goes outside to take the trash out or to wash his truck. They appreciate his friendliness, outgoing nature, and service to our community. They even go as far as mowing our grass, baking us food, or helping with small chores.
To me, his heroism is in the smaller things. He does the dishes, hangs up my pictures, bathes the kids, reads the kids stories, washes the floors, folds the laundry, grocery shops, mows the lawn, pulls the weeds, and eats whatever I cook (no slight task). He encourages me to be better, lifts me up when I'm down, and loves me when I'm stubborn and unlovable. He's gentle, kind, and so easy to love. He's not perfect, yet to me he's Superman.