Our monthly Manwaring family meet-up happened on a Monday evening, rotating through each of my father's siblings as host. This month, we were at the Gardner's home, my dad's oldest sister, who herself had more children than my young mind could keep track of. Countless cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents were wedged onto sofas, kitchen chairs, fold-out chairs, and bathroom stools. If family closeness was the goal of these meetings, we were over achievers.
Charity was the topic of discussion tonight, and a family story was working its way into family legend.
"As I see it, Sheila's actions were guided by charity when her neighbors decided they didn't like the family's horse," my uncle recounted.
"That's a gentle way to put it," chimed in an aunt. "They passed around a signed petition telling Sheila's family they didn't want the animal around anymore! And this, from the parents of neighborhood kids who were first in line taking turns to get a free ride."
Perhaps the bareback pony rides caused a safety concern for the parents involved, but their reaction caught Sheila completely off guard. She felt terrible that the horse they had given their children and so freely shared with the neighboring kids was a source of deep dissatisfaction for her neighbors. But that they had gathered to discuss the issue without her and were presenting their opinions in this way may have been equally as upsetting.
Feeling hurt herself, and sorry to take the beloved gift from her children, Sheila and her husband sold the horse. Then, taking the petition list and carefully noting each name, Sheila went to the kitchen. She gathered flour, sugar, yeast, milk, eggs...doubling and doubling again her recipe. Hot, buttery, spiced smells wafted through her house until there were enough baked to bring a plate of cinnamon rolls to every name on the list.
Next to me, my brothers waged a pinching war with another cousin, but my eyes were on the speakers and my young heart glowed. Charity. I wanted to have charity like that.
Years passed, and Aunt Sheila passed away, but family evenings continued every month in one house after another. I was a senior in high school, reveling in the independence of a "work release" hour I would be using to volunteer at my childhood elementary school. Even better--my youngest brother and other kids I knew and babysat attended there. Perfect set-up for sibling banter.
I was happily placed under the direction of the school's PE and music teacher, and spent my hour helping her prep for classes and discussing her views on her career choice. When her prep hour turned to PE time, I continued background work in the classroom while she taught in the gym. She was fun and cool, and I could see myself following her footsteps.
One day I arrived and was given several pages of copy work to complete in the office. She was in the gym when I ran into a hiccup with the assignment. I crossed the hallway and opened the door to see her speaking to a group of kids sitting on the floor around her, her back to me. I immediately recognized some kids from my neighborhood and waved, making a silly face as I walked toward her. She turned around at that moment, and I asked her about my copy issue. She answered, and I returned to work, then went home.
At my next released hour, I entered her classroom as usual and looked for her, or for a written assignment from her. When neither were found, I went to the school's office.
"I'm not sure what I'm needed to do today. Do you know where my mentor is?" I asked.
The kindly secretary looked at me with a condemning expression. "I'm sorry, she's not going to need you anymore," she answered shortly.
My stomach dropped. "She's not? Is there anyone else I can work with? I'm set up with this released time for the semester, and I'm supposed to be volunteering."
"No, there's no one here who needs you. I'm sorry," she said with resolve.
Embarrassed and confused, I walked back to my car. I entered the high school parking lot and went in to see my scheduling counselor.
"What happened?" he asked, when I told him that they said they couldn't use me anymore.
"I don't know!" I said, truthfully, feeling like a delinquent.
He called the school. When they answered, he asked to speak with their volunteer coordinator. While he asked them questions and listened to their responses, I sat in honest innocence, truly baffled by it all.
He hung up the phone and looked at me. "Your teaching mentor feels you undermined her authority by making faces at her behind her back," he unraveled. "I suggest we look into other elementary schools where you can complete your work for the semester."
In a daze, I agreed, and a couple phone calls later I had a new place to go. It was unfamiliar and a bit less fulfilling, but it was something. My mentor apparently did not see fit to speak with me about the issue directly, and in all honesty I had no desire to communicate with her either.
But I couldn't leave it there. I couldn't let her go on believing I had disrespected her without doing something to clear it up. Even my reserved high-school self knew I had a responsibility to respond. After a heartfelt prayer for strength and direction, I walked into the kitchen and saw God's answer sitting on the counter: a pan half full of my mom's cinnamon rolls!
Working quickly, I arranged several sticky buns onto a paper plate, covered it tightly, and wrote a brief apology note.
The next day, I drove to the elementary school. My non-confrontational heart was racing! I didn't know what I'd say if I actually saw my mentor in person, so I planned to move in and out of the situation as quickly and covertly as possible. A young girl heading up the sidewalk next to me gave me another option.
"Hey," I called to her, "can you drop this off in the office for me?"
"Ok!" she answered, taking the plate and note into her hands.
She stepped through the doors, and I turned around. I walked back to my car, speed walking, running, sprinting! And drove away.
Had I been a bit more courageous on that day, perhaps I would have sought out my mentor and apologized to her face. Perhaps she would have accepted my apology and invited me to return to work with her.
But as it was, I feel I did the most my flustered heart could do. I set things right where I didn't feel I had done any wrong, and I felt my spirit grow and expand that day. The ache of the false accusation subsided into gratitude for the chance to practice this thing I had hoped to better understand since childhood...this powerhouse called charity.
This post is shared as part of my life's endeavors I wish to document.
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