lavender lady

If you are humble nothing will touch you
neither praise nor disgrace
because you know what you are.
If you are blamed you will not be discouraged.
If they call you a saint
you will not put yourself on a pedestal.
- Mother Teresa

I remember this one particular kids tape we used to listen to when I was a little girl in Kenya. We used to play a lot of story and song tapes. Like the ones with Nanny Bird. She was my favorite. Whoever had to do the voice for that probably permanently damaged her vocal chords. I appreciate the sacrifice. Anyway, this particular song went a little something like this...

"it is more blessed to give than receive, Jesus said long ago. Remember these words if it's joy that you seek..."

Sometimes, though, I use giving as a form of condescension. And as a way to maintain status. I wish it weren't true. But I have come to realize that if I am always the one "blessing" my friends on the street, the one "ministering" to the poor, the one coming to give, then it can always stay look-at-me, and aren't-I-great. I give out socks and conversation on Wednesday nights, and just conversation other days of the week. And maybe something warm to drink. If it's about what I'm offering, then it's nothing special. I don't know how pride became such a part of this. I find motives are really sneaky things. They start out good, and turn yin-yang pretty quickly. Leaving me trying to unfurl them, and asking again for an unsoiled heart.

I wouldn't have met the lavender lady had I not, in typical fashion, parked over fifteen blocks from where I needed to be and decided to walk them. She was sitting outside a cafe, in a blue fleece jacket. Her son had her same brown, half moon eyes. I could smell her before I could see her. Her little table of herbs were scenting the block. Lavender? she asked me. She had bundles of dried flowers, and sachets in mis-matched fabric pouches. She is homeless. She sells lavender for a living. I don't know her story.

I didn't need the lavender. I dried some one summer, and still have more than I know what to do with. But she needed my money. At the time, I knew I would be helping her out... doing her a favor. But all day long I could smell the lavender in my purse, and on my hands. I see it sitting on my bookshelf still. And I'm remembering something. That I needed what she had to give me. The gift of her work. I gave her two dollars, and she gave me a bit of her livelihood. Hers is the weightier exchange. To see it as a favor is to defile and degrade it. To see it as one giving and the other taking... well, that only serves to sit my pride down on a booster seat and stuff it full of cake.

I heard this story: a homeless man, standing in a public square was offering each passerby a drink of his coffee. Another man, who happened to be a famous speaker and author, observed the scene for a few minutes, each person hurrying by in confusion or disgust, ignoring the standing man's offering. (We won't even drink out of the same communion cup as others in church, we're sure as heck not going to sip some bum's coffee.) When the well-known observing man walked by, he reached out and took a drink of the unknown standing man's coffee. Thanks, he said. The standing man replied: all I have is a cup of coffee. I just wanted to have something desirable to give.

When you have nothing, your offerings become so much heavier. The gifts of my friends on the street are their widow's mite. Their love is more vulnerable, a riskier offering.
Mine, if I'm not careful, more closely resemble the obnoxious and up-front giving of the rich. And sometimes do even when I am careful.

I need to make sure that I don't become a consumer of social justice.
God, save me from using my friends in a twisted desire for purpose.
From buying t-shirts for a cause but not grieving for the ones involved.
From creating a new form of legalism, not through moralism, but through loveless advocacy.
From thinking dollar bills are worth more than lavender.