The Little Bit

I see the two yellow daffodils on my windowsill.
They are in a Styrofoam cup.
They are bending down looking as if they are bowing to the crowd.
They were a gift.

They were a gift from a precious little boy.
He and his brother came to help my husband bring the deck furniture from the basement.
They and their two brothers spend a lot of time in our home.
For these two, who are the older brothers, being “hired” for a few jobs is encouraging.

Encouraging because they are old enough to take on more responsibilities.
Encouraging because they are paid for their hard work.
Encouraging because they are doing something their two younger brothers cannot do.
Yet!

They are taking on the jobs my own boys did when they were home.
Picking up sticks on the front lawn.
Throwing walnut shells into the woods, the ones the squirrels left behind.
Helping my husband carry deck furniture to the back deck.

They love to help.
They are hard workers.
They also love one other thing.
They love Mrs. Gallagher’s brownies.

After their work, they came inside and sat at the kitchen island.
I placed brownies on plates in front of them.
The oldest boy wanted cold milk.
The younger brother wanted hot chocolate.

They each got their wish.
We talked about school and lacrosse.
My husband teased them and said, Mrs. Gallagher only makes brownies when you come over.
Not true, but I played along.

I teased back that I was out numbered.
I was the only female in this kitchen of men.
A sixth grader and a third grader like to be referred to as men.
They teased right back about how I would not understand guy talk.

I think they forget that I raised two boys.
I remember guy talk about sports, and football teams, and super heroes.
I remember.
I played along anyway.

It was what happened on my side porch that melted my heart.
The younger brother came up to me as I hung my wind chimes from the hooks.
I picked some flowers, he said handing two daffodils to me.
For a minute, the face of my own son was all I could see.

For a minute, the years rewound.
It was deja vu.
I took the daffodils from his hand.
Thank you, so much; they are lovely, I said and meant it.

I can find some more for you, he said.
I assured him that these two were just perfect.
It was my own daffodils that he picked for me but that didn’t matter.
He was giving a piece of his heart and I accepted.

While he and his brother continued to help my husband in the garage, I did what I always did.
I put the two daffodils in water in a white Styrofoam cup.
I placed the cup in a prominent place on my kitchen windowsill.
I knew that when he came in for his brownies it would be the first thing he saw.

He did.
I watched as his eyes went right to the cup on the windowsill.
I watched him smile as the sun came through the window just right.
A florist’s bouquet couldn’t have been any better than this.

Your flowers are just beautiful, I told him as he smiled proudly.
The flowers are beautiful.
So is the heart who gave them to me.
The flowers are an offering of friendship and innocence.

I couldn’t have been more pleased.
Whether it is a daffodil or dandelion bouquet does not matter.
It is the heart that gives the bouquet that is precious.
It is the little hands that picked them from the yard that mean so much.

I have seen people dismiss this kind of bouquet.
I have seen mother’s leave the bouquet of dandelions outside rather than making a fuss.
And make a fuss you must.
It is a bit of themselves that the child is giving as he holds out his hand.

When Jesus looked up and saw a great crowd coming toward Him, He said to Philip, “Where shall we buy bread for these people to eat?” He asked this only to test him, for He already had in mind what He was going to do. Philip answered Him, “Eight months wages would not buy enough bread for each one to have a bite!” Another of His disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, spoke up, “Here’s a boy with five small barley loaves and two small fish, but how far will they go among so many?” Jesus said, “Have the people sit down.” There was plenty of grass in that place, and the men sat down, about five thousand of them. Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks, and distributed to those who were seated as much as they wanted. He did the same with the fish. When they all had enough to eat, He said to His disciples, “Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.” So they gathered them and filled twelve baskets with the pieces of the five barley loaves left over by those who had eaten. (John 6:5-13)

A meager lunch given by a willing boy fed five thousand men plus women and children.
In Jesus’ hands, our little bit is an abundance.
I can imagine the face of the little boy as he handed over his lunch.
Had he already eaten or did he give his lunch away before he even took a bite?

I can see his face.
I can see his little hands handing over the only sustenance He had that afternoon.
I can see him saying, It’s just five small barley loaves and two small fish.
Just means nothing in Jesus’ hands.

Just is everything.
It is not so much what is in the hands as much as it is the willingness to hand it over.
Whether it be two daffodils from a lawn or a bunch of dandelions, it is enough.
It is more than enough.

When it is given with a pure heart, it is a feast.
When it is given in innocence, it is as precious as a fine jewel.
When it is so small it is barely noticed, it is the gift you treasure the most.
It is not the gift but rather the heart of the giver.

I look at my two daffodils in the white Styrofoam cup and smile.
They couldn’t be more perfect.
They couldn’t be more precious.
What is the “little bit” that you can hand over to Jesus for Him to multiply?

Go ahead.
Hand it over.
Watch what Jesus will do.
Be amazed.

2 responses to “The Little Bit”

1. I love this! Thank you so much, Gina. And it’s amazing to me what little boys remember when they are men. As you can imagine, this story brings back a thousand memories and even some tears for those days when seeing our sons’ faces in the faces of the young boys who go through our house. It’s interesting to me that the boys who have GOOD mommies and healthy family relationships often bring the flowers, speak the love, and enjoy the banter. The ones who have it hard, who don’t really know the security of family and parental nurture — those are the ones who soak it up, and may be fiercely loyal and will do anything for a woman who “mothers” them, but in their childish need cannot say what their hearts are feeling. But later – when they are grown or when life’s hard lessons have brought them to brokenness, THEN, sometimes, through God’s incredible grace, you hear the words, “This is the only house where it feels like I am coming HOME.” I struggle sometimes with the hardness of loving children whose lives are so dictated by poverty, parental irresponsibility and selfishness. I struggle with knowing how to love children while not enabling parents to abdicate their God given charge to provide and nurture and teach and example. I’m grateful for this time in my life, when the children whose lives are most in my life are the ones who are either my grandchildren or in my Sunday School class — who come from homes where they are taught about Jesus, who are loved, who are delightful children and who, while I pray for their parents often, I don’t have to wonder about their safety. I’ve come to realize that there is a time for this kind of involvement, and that God’s call to us changes often. But I remember the days when it wasn’t this way, when I was told that I needed to report a family because I was mandated, when I wondered if my heart was going to make it through the anguish of the inroads that the Enemy had made in the lives of “my kids” through generational sin, as well as their own little personal choices to lie, cheat, steal, fight, and destroy, This got way longer than I meant for it to. It’s a busy morning at Shady Acres. But this stirred something so deep in my heart, and I got to rambling! I love you Gina. May you continue to reap the investment that you make in the lives of the children and their Mamas here on earth, But only Heaven will tell the length and depth and VALUE of the brownies served in a sunny kitchen in a town in Pennsylvania. Keep on looking for the opportunities and keep listening for the Whispers of His Movements. Take care, and Blessings!

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   • Oh, Mary Ann, there are tears in my eyes as I read this. I always hope that my simple words will somehow convey what my heart is trying to say. For another mother to understand…for another mother to know the feeling of seeing the face of your grown children in the small faces of the children before you. Somehow, for you, my simple words hit your heart as well. To God be the glory. You are loved, friend.
     Gina

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