A Greater Gift

"Jesus sat down opposite the treasury where the offerings were placed and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a fraction of a penny. Calling His disciples to Him, Jesus said, " I tell you the truth, this poor widow put in more than all the other contributors to the treasury, for they have all contributed from their surplus wealth, but she, from her poverty, has contributed all she had, her whole livelihood." [Mark 12: 41-43].

Imagine a situation like this, where people with extensive disposable income, give a portion of their wealth; but where someone who truly lives in destitution, gives generously, with all that she has.

I remember, as a child, giving when it felt like I had nothing to give.

I remember as a child going every summer with my family, to the same cottages, on the same lake. And I always noticed the caretaker there, Wilbur, a slight, wiry man with rough, tanned skin, big hands and a strong profile. He was part Native American and he seemed, in my child's view, a quiet and proud man.

He may have been sort of "slow", because he spoke with grunts, in a guttural. He smiled a lot and gestured, and in this way, made his meaning known. He smelled musty, like the barn where he slept, and sort of fishy, like the perch and walleye that he scaled and cleaned for the guests after their fishing trips. He brought a horse around now and again from the local stable, and he allowed the children to sit on her.

Except for the children at the cottages, he was a loner. In his free time, he paddled around in a wooden dinghy, painted in many faded, peeling colors, yellow splashed on top of blue and green and red. But the dinghy was so leaky, he could not venture too far from shore, and he bailed more than he rowed.

The adults whispered at Wilbur and made disparaging remarks. Some of the kids laughed at him. But I could see that he did not seem to have any family. I hated to think how alone he was.

The truth was, I felt alone too. In my dysfunctional and abusive family, no one had ever hugged me or said they loved me. I was called ugly every day and sometimes hit. I was putting myself down for naps, figuring out how to make the hunger go away, and finding ways to stay cool in summer and warm in winter. I waited to go to sleep, until everyone was in bed sleeping. I decided at around that time that I would speak rarely or not at all. I wanted to be invisible.

Wilbur gradually warmed to my family. He would try to talk to us, excitedly, but most of the time, no one understood him. He started to ask us if we would like to come to the Algonquin Inn, where he would go every Saturday night to eat dinner and have a few beers.

The truth is, I was worried about Wilbur. He had no one who seemed to care about him. He was scrawny, and wore old, stained clothes. One day, I spoke up enough to whisper to my mother, could we go to the Algonquin Inn when Wilbur was there? (It would make him so happy, I thought to myself.)

You could say that, even as a child, I had a poverty of spirit. I had come to distrust humans. Yet, I-- who was anxious, and afraid to speak, who had never felt love or mercy, who was worried every morning about whether I would get enough to eat, or about how I would get enough sleep-- I felt responsible for Wilbur. I gave kindness, to a man whom others belittled or ignored. I gave the love and gentle caring that I had never received. I was like the widow who gave the small amount that she had, (and it was all that she had), for she had nothing else to her name.

We showed up that night at the Algonquin Inn, and Wilbur ran over to us when he saw us there. He brought scores of people over to our table to introduce us. Wilbur was proud and excited and happy. It was as if, for a few hours, he had family.

I have not thought about this evening for decades. But I remembered it, when I re-read the story of the widow who gives away the two tiny copper coins in her purse.

Sometimes, it is not the amount that we give. It is the fact that we give all that we have.

True giving is not about offloading one's excess, which you do not need and will not miss anyway.

True generosity is when we care deeply enough to give all that we have. True generosity is when we have the faith to understand that much more comes back to us, than we can ever give.

When we give what we do not have to give, a miracle happens: we receive an even greater bounty in return.

[Related Posting: "Giving My All", March 21, 2012.]

(c) Spiritual Devotional 2012. All Rights Reserved.