A Priceless Gift

She kept moving towards me. Each step as she drew closer revealed the depths of her deep, dark eyes that seemed to pierce further into my soul. Her skin matched her eyes, and both genes and endless hours working in the sun and wind had produced a color like that of night. The wrinkles on her face matched the tears in her clothing. They were random, deep, jagged and the result of living in impoverished conditions. Her hair had never experienced the touch of Pantene or Tresemme. It was in knots, lined with silver, and split. She was hunched over, limping as she moved, yet staring straight at me. Being downwind I caught her smell and felt queasy. She continued on, staring at me. Her smile revealed a few brown, pointy teeth. Yet this was a smile that I will never forget.


There I was, just ordained a deacon in Kenya, Africa. It was the part of the service where people bring the newly ordained gifts. I was dressed in beautiful, clean and brightly colored vestments. My hair was done well, all placed perfectly with gel. My shoes had been polished the day before. They reflected the hot, African sun with a glair. My teeth were white and straight—and they were all there. I had showered the night before and that morning, applying the usual nice smelling deodorants and colognes afterwards. I faked a smile, but was anxious at the sight of the woman in front of me.


Then she reached out her hand—hands that had held and buried babies, milked cows, scraped soil, formed and cooked bread, and prepared endless meals to less-than-grateful kids. I reached with my two-college-degree holding, silky smooth, and perfectly groomed hands to hold hers. The touch was like sandpaper on glass. She left something in my hand and walked away. When I opened my hand I found a few red-dirt covered paper shillings. It was probably more money than she ever would spend. And yet it was such a small amount that I would probably not bother to pick it up had I seen it on the sidewalk of a city. She had so little. I had so much. Yet she gave me all she had. I was without words.


I am still haunted by this experience. I have prayed over it and reflected on it many times since. Surprisingly, it is not a feeling of guilt I experience. There are certainly discrepancies with how some people are given so much in life and some suffer with so little. I know that I have received many, many blessings and so few of them, if any, have been because of anything I could have done. Yet, it was the person with so little that gave to me, and continues to give to me this day. In her forlorn state, when she with so little gave me so much, her eyes did not condemn me. Her eyes simply said: freely receive, and remember how much you have freely been given.


There is a place in the Christian tradition for us to try to eradicate poverty, to struggle for justice, and to constantly give rather than receive. And yet, sometimes the place that God ultimately wants us to be in our hearts is grateful: grateful for our lives, our families, for Him, and even for the struggles and sufferings that we endure.


This wonderful Kenyan woman may only have handed me a few shillings, but it was the reminder to be grateful for all I have been freely given that is the gift without price.
Peace!