Enough to Make a Difference
Web Exclusive

Kathleen Swartz McQuaig
From the Jul/Aug 2010 Issue of Lay Witness Magazine

Sometimes even the ugly scenes of our lives can become precious when we give them to Our Lord.

"Buy something, will you! I need the money." The vendor's anger hissed through each word. His voice hung in the air like the thick summer heat. His steely eyes cut right through us. What had we done? What had any one done—except browse through a roadside flea market? My neighbor Carol and I had simply been milling around like others when the man abruptly raised his eyes above the clutter and started bellowing at us.

Perhaps he thought we were wealthy. Maybe we looked like someone who had treated him unkindly, or maybe it was just the pain of his own dire need. All we knew was that our outing, which had started as fun, suddenly looked ugly and intimidating.

An hour earlier, Carol and I dropped our sons off at scout camp. We had already headed home when we spotted a dirt lot and tables with would-be treasures. "MAKE AN OFFER" said a large sign propped against a table leg. Carol and I exchanged eager glances. We were two hours from home in unexplored territory and delighted at the potential!

Besides having children the same age and our husbands in the military, Carol and I loved sharing our faith. Whether God or providence had brought us to that moment, we weren't sure. But we were excited about our treasure hunt and its possibilities.

It was only after stepping from the car to take a closer look that Carol and I discovered how most items were broken or rusted beyond repair. Even the few salvageable pieces weren't worth the money the owner expected to glean from them. Carol and I struggled to make sense of the rust we saw lying on the tables. But in the process, we failed to notice the angry eyes glaring at us. As the owner's grumbling gave way to shouting, we pushed down our fears and high-tailed it back to the car.

Carol's car was less than 50 yards away, yet we could hardly move fast enough. Clouds of dust billowed up from the sun-scorched ground as we quickened our pace. We wanted to get away, far away, where this stranger's threatening roars couldn't touch us. Maybe he did need money, but what were we supposed to do? Who did he think he was yelling at us like that, anyhow?

An uncomfortable feeling stirred in the pit of my stomach as I attempted to close my ears to deafening shouts. Once inside the car, I looked around the lot. I noted the shacks and run-down structures, grease, dirt, and trash; I saw a weathered trailer that probably served as this man's home. I shuddered as the details became etched in my mind. I wanted to get away—where I couldn't hear the anger, see the pain, or feel the concern.

But the next morning, thoughts of the roadside vendor invaded even my shower time. I could not escape the nagging glimpse at that man's life. Boy, was he miserable, I thought. Still, I found myself praying for him. I'm sure he did need money, but who was to say he wouldn't throw it away on drugs or alcohol? I felt helpless. Part of me wanted to dismiss him as an unpleasant, bitter soul, but another part of me felt a deep sadness. I knew no amount of money could buy the happiness for which that man searched.

But, as I prayed, another story where there hadn't been money enough to make a difference came to mind. It was from Acts 3 of the Bible. There, a man—crippled since birth—begs for alms at a temple gate through which Peter and John are entering. Though moved with pity, Peter cannot give the man that for which he asks. What Peter does give is a far greater gift. He looks intently at the man and says, "I have neither silver nor gold, but what I do have I give you: in the name of Jesus Christ the Nazorean . . ." Peter then reaches out and heals the man.

In my case, I could neither physically change that vendor's circumstances nor give him the riches for which he begged. Anything I could do materially seemed insignificant against such great need. But I did have an opportunity to share what I had. I recalled instances when my own life resembled the brokenness, rust, and need lying on those tables. Maybe there were times when I, too, thought that money could fix it. Times when, though I'd looked for worldly answers, it was our Lord's love, His guidance, and His Word that made my life the richest.

No, I didn't have wealth enough to make a difference in that man's life. But clutching my own Bible—my tattered yet precious gift—I knew what I must do. Choking back a lump in my throat, I whispered, "Thank You, Lord."

Inside the front cover of a crisp new Bible I printed: To the man who said he needed money: I have neither silver nor gold, but what I have I give you in the name of Jesus, our Lord. . . . May He touch your life with His richness.

Leaving it unsigned, I wrapped the Bible and a Guideposts magazine in clear plastic, and then covered it with brown paper. After securing the outermost layer with string I scrawled: To the man who said he needed the money . . . this is the greatest gift I can give you.

Carol came to visit later that afternoon. I took a deep breath and confided in her about my prayers and the Bible that I'd wrapped. "It's hard to explain," I said. "I believe this is what I'm supposed to do, but I need your cooperation."

I was taking a risk with my dear friend and neighbor. Instinct had sent us running. But because of timing, I was unable to travel the two hours to pick up our boys; Carol would be the one making the trip. I needed her help. How strange my request must have sounded—this wasn't just about me or my response. I was asking Carol to step out in faith and leave a Bible in the midst of all that junk.

Carol studied me quietly. It was hard to tell what she was thinking. I couldn't blame her; who would want to chance another encounter with the same irate man?

"I understand if you'd rather not," I said, "but I had to ask."

After a long moment of silence Carol slowly nodded. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Okay," she said. "Okay."

A week later, Carol successfully—and uneventfully—placed the Bible on a table amidst the rust. This time there were no ugly words or glaring eyes. There was no running or hiding from the graphic scene. There was simply quiet obedience—one small gesture to offer one of God's greatest riches. Our part of the mission was complete.

That day Carol and I unearthed a treasure different from any we had ever known. We realized that despite the nastiness we may encounter or our apparent inability to change another's lot, we can choose compassion and offer what we have. In our case that meant not seeing the harvest but simply sowing the seed.

God would deliver the gift where it was needed most, and with His blessing even our meager efforts might be enough to make a difference.

Kathleen Swartz McQuaig and her family live in south-central Pennsylvania, where Kathleen writes, speaks, and teaches. She's published in periodicals and anthologies, including Chicken Soup for the Mother and Daughter Soul.