I learned an important lesson about giving the other day. Through a curious event, I discovered that we simply need to place our gifts in God’s hands, then trust Him for the outcome.
A nurse where I work purchased some Victoria’s Secret lotion at our little hospital store. When I went to her office for a meeting, I admired the exquisite gold and ecru packaging and its heavenly scent. I decided it would make a perfect gift for my coworker Lenore who’d been going through a trying time.
I purchased the lotion and took it to Lenore that very afternoon. She smiled and thanked me profusely for thinking of her and admired the fragrance when she inhaled it from the tube.
Now here’s the wacky, embarrassing, maddening, hilarious, and touching thing that happened later that evening.
A group of staff from our hospital were meeting at a restaurant for dinner. When I arrived, a couple, Barbara and Tom, whose young daughter had recently died, were sitting at the table surrounded by Lenore and other friends. Barbara was in the process of unscrewing the cap on a tube of Victoria’s Secret lotion just like I’d given Lenore. Her eyes were puffy from crying. “This smells delicious, Lenore,” she said. Her words had a forced, mechanical tone. “How can I ever thank you?”
I glanced at Lenore and knew from the stunned expression on her face that one way to thank her was to make me disappear!
Barbara massaged the lotion into her forearm and suddenly snuggled up to Tom for him to take a whiff. No longer on the verge of tears, she giggled flirtatiously at her husband. Then laughter came from the depths of their spirits. “Oh, my goodness,” Barbara said. “It really is possible. This is the first time I’ve laughed since Tracie died.”
“I didn’t think I would ever laugh again,” Tom said with an amazed smile.
When the conversation settled down, Lenore found me at end of the table where I was sitting. “Regifting that lotion,” she said. “Can you ever forgive me? When I tried to wear the lotion myself, I couldn’t stop coughing. Oh, Roberta, I’ve never done such a tacky thing before.”
This time, I was the one laughing. “That lotion came from The Giver of All Gifts,” I said. “It was His wonderful way of making Barbara and Tom feel His joy again.”
Last Saturday, my sister Rebekkah and I attended an estate sale. When we arrived at the home where the sale was being held, we learned that the ad had been a mistake. The sale was really supposed to take place the following weekend. The guy in charge had to locate helpers. . .and fast. One of his recruits was his young son Mitchell.
As we were leaving the sale, Rebekkah remarked to me: “That little Mitchell was so nice and mannerly. Down in the basement, he was talking to everyone and being so helpful. If I could locate a stamp and a card and his address, I’d write a note and tell him what a fine young man he is.”
That’s when I retrieved The Basket from a shelf in my closet. It’s filled with an assortment of blank cards, stamps, and stickers. I got the idea for it when I was going through my mother’s things after she passed away. Mom was known for her encouraging notes and her greeting card ministry. It always amazed me that someone in severe pain from metastatic breast cancer could find the wherewithal to send a clipping about Erma Bombeck to a friend who enjoyed her humor, a recipe from the Sunday paper to a new bride who loved to bake pies. But after Mom died, I discovered her secret. It was a basket loaded with envelopes she’d pre-stamped, little stacks of cards organized with rubber bands. A phone directory was included as were a variety of pens.
In short, Mom had prepared to give. And because she was organized and deliberate in her approach, it never overwhelmed her, even at the end.
The memory took me back to my growing up years. Whenever a neighbor had a death in the family, Mom always delivered a big Pyrex bowl of her signature potato salad. She kept all the ingredients on hand so she didn’t have to stop and make a trip to the grocery and maybe talk herself out of it. Preparing to give was not just a philosophy for Mom; it was a lifestyle.
The day the ambulance brought Mom to my log cabin to live out her final days, I learned even more about Mom’s preparations for giving. When I moved the furniture to make room for the hospital bed, I discovered several packages of cheese crackers under the sofa. I’d given them to Mom during her visits in the hopes of putting some weight on her. When she didn’t feel up to snacking on them herself, she’d stashed them under the sofa to dole out to my dog Spanky.
Now Rebekkah was choosing a blank card featuring a three-dimensional bird from my Mom-inspired basket. She pasted a stamp on its bright blue envelope and dashed off a few words of praise to young Mitchell. She smiled as she raised the flag on my rural mailbox to signal the postman that he had a pickup. And I smiled too when Rebekkah told me she had designs for a market basket she’d recently picked up at a yard sale. It’s great to see a sibling carrying on a family tradition.
Here’s to the Giving Life,
Roberta Messner
P.S. I can’t resist telling you a story that happened today at the VA hospital where I’m a nurse. I made a run to the vending area to get a cherry coke for lunch. But the pop machine refused to take my dollar bill. Just then a smiling, grey-haired man with an oxygen cannula in his nostrils limped up to me. A Korean war veteran perhaps? “Wanna try some change in that thing?” he asked. The man produced a jeans pocket full of quarters, dimes, and nickels. Just what the vending machine wanted. When I thanked him, he said: “I used to come here to my appointment with empty pockets. Then I noticed that people were always needing change. So now I come ready. It puts some pep in your step, you know?”
Ah, yes, the joys of preparing to give. And in these economically stressed times, his giving didn’t cost him a penny. But oh, the difference it made in my whole day.
Today at work, one of our physical therapists was talking to me about homeschooling his children. It reminded me of when my sister Rachael homeschooled her two some years back. Elizabeth and Little Paul learned fractions by tripling cookie recipes they delivered to shut-ins, synonyms by penning thank you notes. Once Little Paul mailed me a card to say thanks for a watch I had given him for his birthday. His assignment was to compose three sentences in which the word watch was only used once. His charming note read:
Dear Aunt Roberta,
Thank you for my watch. I love having my own clock. It is a fine timepiece.
Love,
Little Paul
I smiled at the memory of how my sister taught her children to be givers along with learning math and English. Then another memory surfaced, and with it the realization that my mother was the original homeschooler. When I was in junior high, I began to experience a perplexing array of physical symptoms. Severe pain behind my eye, changes in my vision, a bulging eye, seizures. Mother and I left West Virginia in search of a doctor in a big city who could tell us what was wrong and what could be done to remedy it.
I missed a considerable amount of school in the process. Mother, a former first-grade teacher, was understandably concerned. So she gave me little assignments. Once on a Greyhound bus, Mother instructed me to find the saddest looking person on board and to find out what was troubling them. (This was the sixties and things were safer.) Then I was to write an essay about it. On a C&O train, she asked me to keep my eye out for something amusing and then report my finding to her. I returned with a story about identical twins who wore matching girdles.
When we reached our destination at a large medical center, Mother and I spent considerable time in waiting rooms. My assignment then was to interview fellow patients to determine what it was that made them more or less happy with their healthcare experience. For years I kept a journal detailing such comments. I began to understand that while patients are grateful when their caregivers are knowledgeable, what they want just as much is to know that they also care about them. Those observations were the impetus for a nursing textbook I later wrote on patient satisfaction.
Today I’m thanking God for the amazing gift my mother gave me with her travel assignments. I see now how she zeroed in on what interested me-writing and healthcare-and helped to bolster my natural curiosities. Instead of being a serious detriment, the many days I was absent from a formal classroom became opportunities for learning that are with me still.
On Mother’s tombstone are these words: A mother’s heart is a child’s classroom. Let’s make today Mother’s Day as we remember the lessons these wonderful women have taught us.
Have you ever received a gift that the giver didn’t realize they were giving? It happened to me when the delivery guy from our local China Garden made an error in transcribing my name.
When my order for crab rangoon arrived, instead of “Roberta” printed on the white to-go bag, was the name, “Robesta.”
Later that day, the other nurse in the infection control office began calling me by my new name. “How was your lunch, Robesta? Want a cherry Coke from the machine, Robesta? Hey Robesta, got anything planned for this evening?” And the name stuck.
Robesta. It reminds me of the endearing names Jesus has for me. Chosen One. Redeemed. Child of the King. Ah! The sound of those names.
So this week, when I’m fretting about the H1N1 pandemic or worrying if my new roof is going to hold up this winter, I can hear Jesus say: “Everything’s under control, Robesta. You’re in my very capable hands.”
Speaking of names, the name Roberta is one you don’t hear much these days. In fact, when I was a young girl back in the sixties, it made me feel like an oddity. Then a kind couple without children entered my life. They lived several blocks from us, and for some reason took a liking to the three of us sisters and our unusual names: Roberta, Rachael and Rebekkah. Every Easter weekend, they’d drive up across the street from our house and deliver our goodies, handmade chocolate Easter eggs. Those eggs were doubly delicious because they had our names spelled just right in pink icing.
For years, their annual delivery delighted me. Then I grew up. I thought of their kindnesses every time I passed their big brick house, of course, but I never stopped in to say a second thank you. How I’d wanted to tell them that being raised in a family with a father who drank too much, there wasn’t always a lot I could count on. And how those tasty treats, arriving with regularity each spring like the crocuses that pushed their yellow heads through the frozen earth, meant so very much. But I never seemed to get around to it.
Then one day a friend told me she’d prepaid her funeral at a local mortuary so her children would never experience the unpleasant task. While selecting a casket on the upper level of the funeral home, she noticed an antique grand piano on display. I just had to see it, she insisted. On the dreaded day of our appointment, when I stepped inside the funeral parlor, something else on display took my breath. It was a large message board with black letters that told me that the giver of those wonderful eggs had passed away.
I opened the squeaky door to the viewing room only to discover that I was the first person to pay my respects. I stepped up to the casket and placed my warm hand over the dear lady’s cold one. “I am so sorry. I never told you what all of those Easter eggs meant to me.”
Today, I tormented myself once again for never saying a proper thank you. “Do you have any idea how it felt to have something with my name on it?” I asked the heavens. And at long last, my heart heard the lady’s tender reply. “Yes, Robesta, I believe I do.”
Yesterday, at the hospital where I work, a patient’s wife and devoted Guideposts, Daily Guideposts, and Angels on Earth reader dropped by my office. I knew immediately that something was wrong for Freda wasn’t wearing her typical joyous smile. “They stopped my radio program,” she told me.
For 17 years, Freda Kielmar, of Portsmouth, Ohio, had faithfully read inspirational stories to the visually impaired from a local radio station. “It’s such a letdown,” she said.
“Well, I know you’ve helped many people over the years,” I said. I’d had my own challenges with sight limitations and I knew how very isolating that could feel. I remembered one summer after I had surgery to remove a tumor behind my eye. For a week, my eyes were bandaged, and the only thing that helped me feel connected to the world was books on tape.
But Freda wasn’t at all sure that her radio ministry had made much of a difference. “I just knew of one fan,” she admitted as she stared at the dark green carpet. “This one lady called me a long time ago to tell me how she enjoyed the program. But that was it. Only one.”
“Oh, I’m certain you had more devoted listeners than that. In fact, I promise it.” But Freda wasn’t so sure.
After Freda left to meet her husband, I thought of how the Bible says we shouldn’t give to be seen and be praised by men but rather we should do everything as unto the Lord. In fact, in Matthew 6, it says that our Father who sees in secret will Himself reward us openly.
Freda’s visit prompted me to recall other secret givers who have touched my life. The Sunday school teacher who went for years without any of her teenage class making a decision to follow Christ. My niece Allison who has a child with special needs. Alexis is two and a half and has never spoken a word. But Allison changes her diapers and administers her tube feedings with such exquisite care that each time I watch her, it’s like liquid love flowing through my veins.
Then there’s Allison’s twin sister Leigh. Leigh lives next door and the two of them are as close as any two human sisters can be. Leigh helps Allison with all three of her children, never expecting a word of thanks for anything. For Leigh, doing for others is its own reward.
And what about school teachers who may never receive feedback for their investment? Nurses and other caregivers whose patients are too ill to even know they are being helped. Prayer warriors talk to the Lord for decades about a wayward child, simply trusting that those fervent prayers will one day make a visible difference. I’m thinking especially of a lady who was confined to her bed due to paralysis. Her one enjoyment was perusing magazines. “I thought my days of helping others were over,” she told me. “Until I realized that I could pray for the authors of the stories I read.”
Secret givers, all. And today, I’m thanking God for their amazing influence on our world.
So if your way of serving the Lord doesn’t attract the attention of people, don’t despair. God sees and He honors every gesture offered in His name.
That’s certainly not the typical response to life’s down days, but it’s something my friend Cally taught me this week. Cally and her husband Steve own a cottage in North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and for years I’ve heard friends and coworkers rave about how convenient and charming it is. Late last October, my sister Rebekkah and I rented it for a week. Then at the last moment, my furnace went out and I had to be at home for the repairman.
This fall, Rebekkah and I thought we were all set to enjoy Cally’s cottage the week of my birthday in late September. But things got harried at work and Rebekkah came down with a respiratory infection. I did the only thing I could. I again called Cally to cancel the reservation.
I hadn’t had a week-long vacation in several years. So all I could think about was what I was missing out on. Walks on the beach at my favorite time of year and the week of my birthday. Sitting at the yellow Formica kitchen table and working on my novel (I hadn’t actually been told the table is a yellow Formica one but it was in my imagination). Side trips to antiques shops. Relaxing in the white wicker rocker with a stack of old Mary Engelbreit magazines (There may not have been a rocker either, but my imagination was alive again).
“I’ll send your money back,” Cally said.
But you could’ve rented the cottage to somebody else. Besides, this is the second time I’ve cancelled on you.”
The debate continued. Finally, thanks to Cally, we arrived at a solution that pleased us all. Cally would donate the money to her missionary at church.
Suddenly, I wasn’t disappointed at all. Rather, I was filled with pure excitement. It reminded me of the world I was creating with my novel. I was living a life of what if, not what is. What if the money we donated to that missionary bought food and medicine for people who had none? What if a child would receive a brand new pair of shoes? What if people were given Bibles and they read them and became believers?
And the biggest what if of all: What if eternity is different because I didn’t take my beach vacation?
Now there’s nothing wrong with taking a vacation; in fact, Jesus spoke of the value of getting away from it all. But I could hear Jesus whispering a loving and wise message to my heart. Sometimes you have to let go of the life you’ve planned, Roberta, in order to have the life I have for you.
I talked to Cally again to get the real story about her missionary. This remarkable lady is an English teacher who lives and works in France, in an area that is only about 10% Christian. Because of the current economy, the monetary need is especially great to be able to spread the gospel.
During the week I was to have vacationed in North Myrtle, I tacked pictures to my bulletin board that put me in a vacation state of mind. There’s one of a rustic screen door, held open by a toddler and her kitty cat. Another of a white porcelain sink at a window curtained by cheerful old dishcloths. Still another features that white wicker rocker with a fat pot of red geraniums beside it. Then I did as Mary Lou Carney suggested in one of her blogs. I took a staycation right here in Nothing-Goes-On, West Virginia.
And I had a marvelous time doing it. Never once did I do a poor-pitiful-me routine about not being at the beach. Instead I was filled with joyous expectation about what God is doing in France through Cally’s missionary.
Cally taught me that when life hands you a disappointment, you always have a choice. Pray about your situation, and watch God at work. He just might lead you to a giving choice, one that may even change eternity.
As some of you know from my writings in Guideposts and Daily Guideposts, in my teens I was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis, a condition that causes tumors to grow on nerves throughout the body. I soon learned that pain would be my constant companion. One Saturday afternoon back in 1969, Mother came home from a church rummage sale with a slender volume she’d picked up for a nickel. It was called Try Giving Yourself Away. “I read this little gem ages ago and it’s wonderful, Roberta,” she told me. “If you do what the author says, your life will change. I even believe it will help your pain. That’s what I’m asking God for, honey.”
Mother’s mention of pain relief really got my attention. The continuous burning and pressure behind my eyes had been especially severe all day. I’d planned to make over 20 deliveries to my Avon cosmetics customers but instead had curled up on the couch with an ice bag.
Sometimes reading helped to distract me. In desperation I decided to give the book a try. Giving the simplest things had surely filled the author David Dunn’s life with joy. But mine? I wasn't so certain. I was just a kid living in a small West Virginia town trying to save up money for college. I found Mother preparing a pot roast in the kitchen. “The book had some interesting points,” I said, “but I don’t have anything to give. I’m broke. Remember?”
Mother smiled. “You have a lot to give, Roberta. I’ve seen you with the little ones at Sunday school. You’re a natural encourager, and that doesn’t cost anything except a little time. What about writing notes to people to lift their spirits like Mr. Dunn suggested? If you’ll give it a try, I’ll supply the stamps.”
I did what Mother suggested and the most amazing thing happened. Whether I was thinking about what I would say in those notes, or actually writing them, I was filled with the most consuming sense of well being. It was just like that little Sunday school tune said. I had the joy, joy, joy down in my heart. I also had less pain and rarely took an Aspirin when I was immersed in the act of giving.
Then I became a nurse. I needed hard facts to convince me of such things. So I began to keep a journal. For many years, I chronicled my experiences. Whenever I suffered with pain, I jotted down what activity I was engaged in at the time, what foods I’d eaten, my level of stress.
Last year I took a long look at those journals. I was stunned at the facts I uncovered. The most important relationship I discovered was the one between giving and pain. Plain and simple, when I was excited about helping someone, my pain was significantly less.
And sometimes it disappeared altogether.
The next time I visited my physician, I mentioned my discovery to him. Dr. Brownfield wasn’t surprised at all. “Giving is one of God’s tools for health,” he said. “It’s key to the abundant life, just like nutrition, physical exercise, and prayer. And today it’s even supported by scientific studies.” We talked about how there are more than a thousand references to giving in The Bible, and I decided if God thinks giving is such a good idea, then so should I.
Mornings are especially difficult for a person with chronic pain, and I was no different. Pain was my first thought when I awakened and it never left me all day long. A life sentence without mercy, I often told people.
But that day Dr. Brownfield challenged me to begin each day in a different way, with prayer and a new strategy. I was to make giving a conscious part of my daily life. The focus was not on giving to receive but rather to give because it’s God’s way. After all, when God promises to open the windows of heaven and pour out a blessing we can’t contain, He’s referring to blessing us spiritually, emotionally, financially, and physically.
Since that eventful encounter with Dr. Brownfield 15 months ago, I haven’t needed a single dose of breakthrough pain medication. And today, on my 56th birthday, it’s the first year in memory that I’m truly celebrating on every level.
Chronic pain is an intensely personal matter, and every case is different, of course. The person’s physician is always the best adviser. But if you or someone you love is plagued by chronic pain, I want to propose giving. Pray about it, and God will reveal what you alone can give to make this world a more beautiful place. And if giving changes your life or health, I’d love to be one of the first people to hear about it. Some of the best givers of all are Guideposts readers, and I want to share your stories too. When you respond to this blog, please include your phone number in case I need to contact you.
I’d like to teach the world to give. Will you help me?
Here’s to The Giving Life,
Roberta Messner, R.N., Ph.D.
