I grew up in a very decent
and religious background. I have read quite a great deal of the bible. But
there is this particular book in the bible that keeps resonating in my mind
each time I come in contact with people. It is called the book of Corinthians.
In this book I find 2 Corinthian verses 7 quite appealing for a reason I do not
know; maybe I need a supernatural being to explain that to me. And it reads: ‘every man according as he purposeth in his
heart, so let him given; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a
cheerful giver.’ Men of God love this verse so much. It is always handy
when the church is in need of funds and is soliciting for our financial support.
So, the man of God doesn’t need to waste much saliva in preaching us into
giving hugely; series of readings from the book of Corinthians does the magic. Even
if you’re the stingiest person on earth your heart will melt at the mention of
‘God loves a cheerful giver’ such that you don’t even know when you give.
Street beggars often feed into this verse to remind us in case we have
forgotten that God loves us and convince us to give. This verse has been
misconstrued and often times exploited adversely by those who want to extort
something from us. Most of us are guilty of it. I have fallen several times a
victim of that gimmick. Now my story goes.
My pretty friend, who I
admire so much, invited me to their Sunday service (it is one of these new
generation Pentecostal church). As a guy you never say no when a girl invites
you to her church for the first time especially when you’re nursing some kind
of intimacy towards her. In fact you will feel extremely happy to attend even
if you’re an atheist. And then I honoured the invitation. We sat together. It
was time for offering and series of collection went on in the name of ‘God loves
a cheerful giver’ and I became a prey to the gimmicks that I had to empty my
wallet in consonant with the scripture. I dare not fail to collect offertory
envelope at each offertory session as failure to do so will definitely raise a
question mark on my self-acclaimed ‘big boy’ status. I wasn’t sure of the
number of times the offertory went on but I was sure that I exhausted the money
in my wallet that I had to play pranks in the final session. What I did was
smart and horrible. I picked up an envelope, with the mental torture that there
was no money left in my wallet, I borrowed a piece of paper and a biro and
there I wrote something.
I was in a tight
corner. She was sitting beside me. You see that was why I could not dodge any
of the offertory sessions. I gave and gave until I gave all. When I asked her for
a piece of paper and a biro, she asked if I wanted to write a check to the
church, I chuckled and uttered, ‘I could,
if I had my cheque book, but you see I was just thrilled by the pastor’s sermon
so I wanted to copy down the verses so I can revisit them when I get home. She
was really pleased to hear that. If only she knew what I was skimming she
wouldn’t be that pleased. Then I borrowed a paper and a biro from another
brother behind us and I wrote in bold letters: GOD YOU LOVE A CHEERFUL GIVER, SO I PUT MYSELF IN THIS ENVELOPE AND I
GIVE TO YOU. I put in the offertory envelope like every other person put
money in the envelope and I dropped it in the offertory box. I liked doing
crazy things; and that was one of such crazy things.
The service ended and
people were going out slowly, exchanging greetings and chin-wagging. In this
process I lost view of my friend who invited me to church. I thought the best
thing to do was to stand at the front door to the exit; there I can have a
clear view of who has come or gone out. While I was there I had the chance to
observe the various interactions, especially the children having a good time
among them and smiling. On the corner was an old woman; seemed like she was in
her sixties but was actually an octogenarian. I noticed she was quite secluded
and nobody seemed to notice her. How I managed to catch a glimpse of her I didn’t
know. I was pushed by some unforeseen forces to walk towards her. On getting
closer to her I noticed she was shivering a tad bit and she clasped her hands
around her with her head bent down like she was cold. Then I started with those
questions I learnt from health and safety training, like are you alright? Are you
cold or something? Can you raise your hands? Do you need any help? But all
seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. I went closer and touched her on the back
to catch her attention and she jolted like she heard a bomb blast. And swiftly
she got up and uttered “oh my God, the
service is ended….. I’m finished….” and headed for one of the rooms in the church
building. I became curious, so I abandoned looking for the where about of my
friend and went after the woman.
Inside the room were
chairs, tables and debris that easily revealed that foods were shared in the
room without being told. Then I saw the woman sitting on the chair with her hands
folded like someone whose world has crumbled. I walked up to her. This time she
didn’t wait for me to ask anything before she uttered, ‘my son, I’m finished; I want to die.’ I had no memory of the last
time I heard someone beckoning death to come and take him/her like the woman
did. As scary as I was with the woman’s utterances I didn’t hesitate to calm
her down with words of reassurance and conviction that everything would be
alright. It was in the process that I found that the reason the woman was
crying out her heart and beckoning death to come and take her was that she had
missed her share of the foods that were shared in the room. The church normally
call together paupers every Sunday at a specific time (which they were all
aware of) to hand out foods and clothing people have contributed. According to my friend, 'this is what
the church does every Sunday to help people who can’t afford food to at least
feed on a day of rest.' She never missed any sharing session nor ever had she been
late. But this time she missed the session because she had been sitting outside
sleeping; that was because she was so cold that she went closer to the heater
which was situated in the place I found her sitting; and there she fell asleep.
All my consoling and heartwarming words fell on deaf ears. All she wanted was
food to eat and take home for her two kids. I offered her my leather jacket to help
keep her warm a tad bit. Phone call away, inside the church building, was a
fast food stall run privately by the church.
There we were in the
stall, I walked up to one of the staff and explained the woman’s situation to
her and the response I got made me cringe. She made me understand how impossible
it was to offer the woman any food. 'Pastor
wouldn’t find it funny to see the woman hanging around the premises for food,’
I was told. Thank God I was with my debit card. I ordered foods; as much as she
could eat and take home for her kids. There we sat, like every other person, on
my insistent that she eats before she heads for home. I was feeding her as her
hands were shaky like someone who suffers from Parkinson's disease. She fed to her
taste like she never did before. She told me stories of her ordeal in life; how
she was sexually assaulted severally by men; how she was betrayed by her highly
trusted friends and family; how she was frequently battered and pummeled by her
husband; how she was racially abused and ill-treated because of the colour of
her skin and accent; and the story continued. As the meal exited, she thanked
me, blessed me and wished me the best in my endeavours. She was really affected
by my gesture; and she placed her hands on mine and uttered, ‘thank you for feeding me.’ My hand went
straight to my heart and I was wordless. For some minutes I couldn’t speak. After
a while, all I could muster up was, ‘thank
you for letting me feed you and thank God.’ I escorted her out of the
building and she headed home. I forgot to collect back my leather jacket and
she didn’t even remember to give me back.
There I stood for quite
a few minutes musing over the gravity of her words: ‘thank you for feeding me.’ I pondered about how the cold weather
was biting hard and awed if she would have a place to warm herself when she got home. I couldn’t help my innermost feelings, but on a second thought I felt restored
sense of gratefulness for the everyday things we so often take for granted. I remembered
those words she uttered in the course of our conversation while we were sitting
eating. For her, ‘it was not about the
food like she pointed out initially; it was about spending time with her.’ She
is homeless. Her home is slum. There are so many of them in the world. We often
times assume bad things about them and talk down on them, but we do not know
how they got there and we fail to listen to their stories. As humans we all have
different stories. For that woman, it was important for her to feed her kids
and also important for her and her kids to associate with the people. As she
said, ‘you know my son; this is a good
experience for me, but most importantly for my two kids. I do not wish
them to grow older this way and experience what I have experienced in life.’
In the course of our interactions I tried to make a joke with the crazy thing I
did in the service and to my surprise she brought out a little book and read
out a quote from Khalil Gibran, Lebanese born American Philosophical Essayist,
Novelist and Poet, and she read: “You give
but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself
that you truly give.” We both smiled over it.