How small she must have tried to make herself. Shuffling in (on bare feet, most likely), hiding behind her tattered shawl, unwilling to draw attention to the small coins she was about to deposit in the coffer. But He saw her. Mark and Luke both record the scene, which to her may have felt embarrassing but which, to the Lord, was her most shining moment.
Did He make eye contact with her? Did He smile? Did she hurry away? Did Jesus later have the disciples deliver a large basket of provisions to her small dwelling somewhere near Jerusalem? The Gospel writers do not say. But today, the quality of one’s generosity is measured against the widow’s mite. (Luke 21:1–4 NKJV)
The Burden of Knowledge
“Don’t make eye-contact. Don’t make eye-contact…”
Judging by the spontaneous laughter that ran through the movie theatre, the furtive instruction of the mother chicken hurrying her young charge past the frantic Chicken Little was evidently one of the funniest moments in the Disney animated film based on the European folk tale “Henny Penny.”
We laugh nervously, recognizing how eye-contact establishes the humanity of the needy, like ones behind signs held chest-high at traffic lights with words like Hungry … veteran … lost job … will work for food.
Looking is committing, setting into motion more than we think we have time, talent or treasure to address:
“Oh no. Here he comes and I can’t find any change fast enough; the light might change any second … I never have cash. Who keeps cash on hand anymore?! Besides, I wonder if he is even really in need?”
The relief we feel as the light conveniently changes reflects the withdrawal of grace’s hand and the denial that “There, but for the grace of God, go I,” in the rearview mirror.
Windows to See Through, Even Farther
Then there are those letters in the mail; you know, those from one charitable organization or another, that open shutters on the lives of the persecuted or trafficked. I can’t be the only one who suffers guilt pangs if I throw them, unopened, into the recycling bin. But to open them is to encounter the unsettling gaze of trauma, the grimace of raw pain in the eyes of pastors’ wives freshly widowed by radicalized neighboring tribesmen in Nigeria, or of starving children mid-famine or orphaned by Europe’s wars.
Look away. Avoid the eyes … the windowed envelopes to the human condition. Why look? What do I have to give? At least nothing that will really make a difference …
So, time, talent and treasure remain sealed and buried, and the Giver’s blessing denied.
And curse the internet windows! Now the plight of refugees from every natural disaster or evil-plundered people group is delivered to my living room, right on my lap … top.
Facing the Mirrored Visage
I had to face it; I was not a born giver. Nor was my young child who came one evening, tearfully handing me one of his two Thomas the Tank Engine toys and declaring as he walked away, “I can’t stand those little children in—!”
A drive for toys to go with missionaries to an orphanage in Eastern Europe had been launched to encourage the participation of the church’s children. My casual suggestion that my child give one of his two toy engines for the little children in— accounted for his actions revealing less than the cheerful spirit Scriptures exhort. Yet the honesty of his wrestling reminded me of the admonition of Jesus’s brother James’ admonition to not ignore the person reflected in the mirror of God’s word, but in obedience to carry out actions that promote transformation. (James 1:22–25 NKJV)
Today, as a maturing believer, that child of mine is one of the most generous people I know. We may not be born givers, but by Calvary’s grace, we can become reborn givers—transformed increasingly into the likeness of our generous God.
“Such as I Have …”
D. and L. are women from two different worlds, except for their commitment as apprentices of the One who calls His disciples to live from the Kingdom’s transcendent economy. Each often encounters the appeal of the outstretched hand and the pull at her purse and budget. But, like the apostles solicited at the Beautiful Gate, who honestly replied, “silver and gold have I none …” (Acts 3:6 NKJV), they too refuse to stop there.
D., an unmarried college tutor, alternating care for an aging cousin with her sister, carries colorful handwritten cards in the cupholder of her car, each with a prayerfully selected verse of Scripture. These go to any beggar she encounters, whether she has cash to accompany or not. They amusingly examine the cards but often soon pocket them because of their personal touch.
L., a homeschooling mother, and her young daughter keep freshly prepared bags of nonperishable snacks in the car. One or the other smilingly offers these, with a cheery “God loves you,” as they pull up to the beggar-frequented traffic light on their route. They are soon known, and will one day have the privilege of explaining their willing gesture and kind eyes.
And Bring Our Gifts to Thee
P. has not waited to be solicited either. Retired from the U.S. Airforce, he married a nurse and became a contractor in Germany, where they now build a family. But his heart is clearly back home in the place of his beginnings. Born Jamaican, he was placed in the military by his father almost as soon as he had migrated to the U.S. His quartermaster training in culinary skills, combined with a palate for good Jamaican cuisine, has resulted in catering that could have rivaled my own mother’s cooking. The event where we enjoyed this was a charitable fundraiser, since for P. nostalgia went way beyond cultural exchange.
The next time we met him in the Base Exchange, P. was juggling their youngest child, as always, and maneuvering a cart full of sneakers of various sizes. He wasted no time in telling us of his fledgling organization, GreaterG.I.V.E., through which he funds projects for his childhood hometown. Joining with like-minded veterans and alumni, the group has provided thousands of euros-worth of back-to-school items, soccer cleats, computer tablets, and other supplies for afterschool programs; repaired basic school restrooms; and fed the destitute of the community.
This son-of-the-soil brought to mind a patriotic school pledge we sang idealistically in days of our youth—“Jamaica, land of beauty,/ We promise faithfully/ To serve thee with our talents/ And bring our gifts to thee.” Idealistic or not, P. is keeping his pledge, in unrestrained generosity.
Love’s Greater Gifts
The sound of Christmastide receding was long gone, yet its gift-giving impetus lingered with me, seeking closure. Traditional giving had come to an untimely halt; jars of dried fruit marinating in wine sat around my kitchen, signs of the missed baking opportunity. Unsent cards remained packaged and the family update letter uncomposed.
Yet many more phone calls and texts than usual had been made, as far away a family crisis burgeoned and broke at the height of the season. Help was now desperately needed, family proximity and care of every kind. Who will go? Who will stay? … till the bitter end, giving the last full measure …? We all struggled. One man’s example straightened me.
Just as in childhood, my father needed the voice of a man to speak to him—in this his second childhood, as his mind betrayed him. Diminished in sound decision-making capability, he resisted medical appointments and life-sustaining help. Caregivers and family were at our wits’ end.
The distinguished yet unpretentious voice on the phone was that of a past colleague of my father’s, a former manager. Now well into retirement, he serves on boards and in other consulting capacities in his community. A chance meeting made him aware of my father’s situation, and he showed up at both hospital and house. Mindful of my father’s dignity, he spoke to the waning mind of his friend and coworker, coaxing compliance not once, not twice, but thrice … leaving the door open for more.
Overwhelmed by his generosity, I tried to thank him, but he stopped me.
“Not at all; glad to help.” Then the surprising statement, “It is my duty!”
Saying Grace
Dear God,
Grant us grateful hearts to offer up
“Such as we have” for Thee, who gave all;
Whether the mite of a widow,
A teacher’s prayerful innovation,
Or that of a compassionate parent and child.
Let time, talent and treasure be cheerfully offered,
Rather than pried from self-serving hands.
Stir in us courage for the look that moves us
To the duty of greater giving.
Change us, so that reborn we may live
From the overflow of Your great heart—
Giver of that good and perfect Gift.
Amen.
The featured image, “Potted at Potter’s,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.
I am Denise Stair Armstrong; born and raised Jamaican. I received all my formal academic education in the land of my birth at Shortwood Teachers’ College and the University of the West Indies, specializing in English Language & Literatures in English. The remainder I’ve gained home educating our three wonderful children – Joseph, Charis and Timothy, parenting them with my husband Claude, and in caring for my wheel-chair bound mother. I enjoy reading, cooking, gardening, theatre and ballroom dancing with Claude (only!) and digging into the Word of God.
My passion is worship expressed primarily through writing inspirational pieces that urge readers not to miss how much the Lord has “cramm’d earth with heaven”. My heart is to encourage them to traverse the gap between all our hearts and the cultures that shape them, via the Bridge that is Calvary’s cross.
Add a comment
0 Comments