The Widow's Mite...modernized

I don't know if she's a widow, and unlike the story from the Bible, I know her name. It's Therese Currier. Really, I have no idea if she's even old enough to marry. But I think she's pretty special.

Our local paper runs a "Santa Fund" each year in partnership with the Salvation Army and the Nashua Pastoral Care Center to provide Christmas gifts to families in need. Each day, the paper includes a short profile on someone who's being helped by the Santa Fund, as well as a listing of the most recent contributions. I generally scan the lists, looking for interesting dedications--"In memory of my sweet Willoughby, the best dog ever"--or particularly noteworthy sums. There are lots of contributions of $20, $25, $50, a few $100+. The contributions over $1000 are generally from groups or companies. A local copy company recently donated $30,000, for which I'm sure everyone at the Fund is grateful.

Today, though, what caught my eye, was Therese's contribution: $3. Three. Dollars. Now, there are many who may scoff at the amount, wondering what toy or article of clothing can be bought with a measely $3? Well, in my experience, they'd be right--you can't buy much with $3.

But that's not the point. I look at all the other contributions, and I'm grateful for them, and glad people have been generous. Then I wonder how much it meant to them, and how much this $3 meant to Therese. I think of everyone I hear saying they can't afford to give as much--or at all--this year. For many that is certainly true. But again, here's Therese. No, perhaps she couldn't afford to give $20, $25, $100. Maybe she couldn't even afford to give $5. But she gave $3, possibly her only money leftover after paying bills and buying food--or maybe she even gave it knowing it'd be $3 she really couldn't afford. We can imagine it's her mite, all she had.

Alone, that $3 doesn't do much for all the families in need this Christmas. But in the city of Nashua, NH, where the paper is based, there are (as of the 2000 Census) 86,605. 68,507 are 15 or older. Imagine if they each gave $3: that would add up to $205,521. Let's even say only half of those people contributed $3. We'd still have $102,760.50 to help get kids things they need, and some things they just want, for Christmas. And that's just one small city!

So I offer that perhaps when we see an article in the paper, or receive a request for donation to a worthy cause, that before we quickly reply, "Oh, I wish I could, but..." we consider Therese Currier and her $3. We don't have to give big (although hey, if you've got some money hanging around, go ahead and be generous). Jesus--and Therese--remind us that is the act of giving that matters. And like so much else, small actions made by many people can create a big effect.

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Named or Un-named, We Remember

I can't seem to stop thinking about her, this woman whose name I don't know.

On Friday, while leaving a friend's apartment, I was stopped in my tracks by an unmistakeable sound: that of someone being hit.

A man yelled in Spanish, each phrase punctuated by that horrible sound. I heard her voice yell back once. His reply was that sound. As I came to myself enough to move away down the stairs, not wanting to be discovered just standing there listening, I heard him yell some more, "Que te dijo? Que te dijo?!" What did I tell you, what did I tell you.

I didn't know what to do. I felt conflicted. It was not my building, not my neighbor, not my business. And yet, I'm a Christian, and a woman. That woman being hit was my neighbor, my sister. I thought about what would happen if I called the police. What would I tell them? Someone was being hit, in some apartment in this building? When I told my friend what I'd heard, he replied, "Welcome to the neighborhood."

And so we fulfill the stereotype of a poor urban neighborhood made up of people of color. Of course, women who live in these places are not the only ones abused by their partners and family members, not by a long shot. But I think about how easily I heard it. Where I grew up, there's at least a little space between houses. While I'm sure my neighbors caught an earful when arguments between my father and me spilled outside, if there had been abuse going on inside, they probably wouldn't have heard. What must it be like to be the neighbors of that woman and others, of the children who are beaten, to hear that?

My contact lasted less than a minute, but reached my soul. What is it like to be exposed to violence--especially intimate violence--as a bystander, over and over? Does one just get used to it, not hear it anymore? Or does it create a dark place in the soul?

Over the last couple days I've held this woman in my thoughts and prayers, and I've come to a realization. In a womanist/feminist preaching class I'm taking this semester, we talk a lot about the many un-named women in the Bible. We remember their stories, but we'll never know their names. One woman invites her children to give the women names when they read about them.

I will remember this woman, though I will never know her name. And like most of the un-named women of the Bible, I don't really know who she is--just one tiny captured moment of her life is all I've got. But I won't forget. In my mind, her name is Luz--Light. I pray for her, for those who love her, for he that hits her, and for all those who are victims of intimate violence--through first-hand experience or second-hand awareness. I pray.

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The Balm of a Psalm

I have stress in my life. School deadlines loom, coming up, as always, much more quickly than anticipated. Procrastination once agains doles out its consequences. Too many responsibilties leave me wishing for a (healthy) day off from everything.



But today I feel ok, and part of it has to do with Psalm 143, the Psalm for the week in my devotional book:

1 Hear my prayer, O Lord; give ear to my supplications in your faithfulness;
answer me in your righteousness.
2 Do not enter into judgment with your
servant, for no one living is righteous before you.
3 For the enemy has
pursued me, crushing my life to the ground, making me sit in darkness like
those
long dead.
4 Therefore my spirit faints within me; my heart within
me is
appalled.
5 I remember the days of old, I think about all your
deeds, I
meditate on the works of your hands.
6 I stretch out my hands
to you; my
soul thirsts for you like a parched land. Selah
7 Answer me
quickly, O Lord;
my spirit fails. Do not hide your face from me, or I shall
be like those who go
down to the Pit.
8 Let me hear of your steadfast
love in the morning, for in
you I put my trust. Teach me the way I should
go, for to you I lift up my soul.
9 Save me, O Lord, from my enemies; I have
fled to you for refuge.
10 Teach me to do your will, for you are my God. Let
your good spirit lead me on a
level path.
11 For your name’s sake, O
Lord, preserve my life. In your
righteousness bring me out of trouble.
12 In your steadfast love cut off my
enemies, and destroy all my
adversaries, for I am your servant. (NRSV)

Now, usually I'm not a big fan of this type of Psalm. All the "smiting of enemies" and "destruction of adversaries" doesn't mesh well with my peace-loving and peace-making personality. Today, however, having spent yesterday just trying to breathe deeply to abate my stress and anxiety,
it occured to me who my enemies were. They are not people, they're feelings.

Not all feelings, of course, but those destructive feelings that leave me (and many of us) frozen and feeling awful and vulnerable to illness: Stress, Anxiety, and Helplessness.

So as I read it, every time I saw the word "enemy" or "adversary" I thought "stress." I found myself more and more relaxed and comforted as I went through the verses. Save me from my stress, God. Adonai, rescue me from my anxiety. It just about brought me to tears.

May this Psalm also be a blessing and comfort to you in your times of stress, trouble, and anxiety.

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