Giving to Beggars

As the bus rolled past the market, I strained my neck to try to catch a glimpse of the fruit being sold today.  Tumba bisilu – jasti bisilu – idde (it’s so hot – too hot) and the last thing I wanted to do was to walk 1.5 km carrying my week's worth of fruit. On the other hand, if I didn’t buy it today I would have to buy from a grocery store later on in the week, and I much prefer buying it direct. Plus, I tell myself, what would be better on a day like today than an ice cold fruit smoothie when I get home?

We rolled through the signal and around the corner, and I was the first to hop off, dodging the passengers overeager to board. I retraced the bus’s steps and my fruit farmer spotted me before I spotted her; there was no turning back now.  The table was plain fruit; nothing too exotic: 2 pineapples, 3 cantaloupes, 20 sweet limes (Uffda! 20?), a plate of black grapes, and – finally – bananas.   

Halfway through our conversation, I became aware of an old woman in a red sari behind me. Standing, watching, waiting. She had her hand extended, quietly, and I knew what she was asking for.

Knowing how to interact with beggars is often a struggle for me in this “developing” and “corrupt” country, as it probably is for others, too.  Foreigners are told to ignore begggars; they may be pimped out, they may be enslaved, they should be in school instead and giving to them only encourages the system. However, Scripture says not to shut your hand from your brother in need; and, may I add, once you look into the eyes of a beggar, your life will never be the same.  Bananas are some of the most practical foods to share, and today my farmer friend had given me more thank I had asked for.  When I turned around, I placed the bananas in the woman’s hand.  She lifted her eyes to mine in thanks, and I smiled into hers, then walked away.

I often struggle after giving to the poor – how am I supposed to feel? Proud of myself for doing something good? Down on myself because I know that I can never do enough?  Because I fumble for a 2 rupee coin with one hand while holding my iPhone in the other? After buying some spinach I began my walk home in the dusty evening light and reached up to finger the pendant hanging from my neck: the widow’s mite.  I bought the mite in Jerusalem nearby the temple ruins; it is a relic of the story of the widow who came to the temple and was giving her offering at the same time as the Pharisee. The Pharisee gave in all his gold and his glory, but the woman gave humbly and gave everything that she had to live on. The Pharisee gave out of his excess, but the widow gave out of her poverty.

I gave this woman a bundle of bananas that I didn’t need; they were extra.  Because of who I am, where I come from, the manner in which I am employed, giving of food isn’t a sacrifice and, Lord willing, never will be.  I eat simply, yes, but never have to wonder where my next meal will come from.  Heck, I have the luxury of deciding if I am going to buy my produce from the farmer or the grocery store, and the choice of shopping later if I am feeling too lazy to lug it home.  How – how – can I give out of my poverty? Give sacrificially? Give in a way that is not self-centered, give with wisdom and love? That is the question of my heart this Palm Sunday. Because the widow at the temple isn’t the only one who gave – Jesus did, too.

Unexpected Midnight Moments

Sitting in the fresh night air, toes in cool green grass, I listened to the locusts chirping.  If I had closed my eyes, I could have been in my grandparent’s backyard in Sioux Falls.

But I wasn’t.  And I wanted to gaze at the stars in the clear black sky, not close my eyes; I wanted to stay exactly where I was.  For forever, if I could. 

Quiet voices of student at a crossroads spoke over the midnight noises, fingers played with grass, eager eyes looked to us as they shared their hearts, their dreams, their struggles.  What they want to do, where they want to be – who they want to be – after their program ends. Processing their experience, processing their next steps, wondering who they will become.

I was in Somahalli, some few hours outside of Chitradurga, about 4 hours north of Bangalore, and I had come at the call of one of my girls.  She and 2 other former students from my NGO are in an intense theatre-training program, and several times throughout the year she has called to invite me to watch the performance. It has always been last-minute, and I have always been otherwise occupied.

But this Tuesday, my only commitment had been office work. So I traveled, excited to see the girls, excited to watch their hard work pay off, excited for a sleepover and the conversation that would undoubtedly go hand-in-hand.

This, however, was exceedingly, abundantly more than I had ever asked or imagined.

It became quiet, and I heard my name.  “Jen,” Nazar asked quietly, “After listening to everything that they have said, is there anything that you want to say to them?”

I paused a moment.  My heart was full – my heart was bursting.  “So much, Nazar,” I replied, and he knew this meant that I would chime in later.  As he began to respond to what the students had shared, my mind registered something that I hadn’t realized before: Nazar had addressed me in English, but the students had been speaking in Kannada.  They had been speaking in Kannada, speaking in Kannada from the depths of their hearts.  This wasn’t a conversation about how much a rickshaw would cost or how many siblings somebody had – this was real life.  It was real life, and somehow I understood.  I understood, and Nazar knew that I did.  Tears were in my eyes, and they spring back as I type. 

These are the moments – the moments that are priceless.  Being with people you love, people you are proud of, people that inspire you, people that you believe in fully, and speaking a language that perhaps every heart can understand. Listening to dreams and yearnings; desires to live fully alive, desires to make the world a better place.  The moments where we see the commonality of humankind that cuts across race, ethnicity, caste, class.  We are real.  We are raw.

This is real life, and it is sweet - so sweet, and so precious.