A Lesson in Giving
By Rachel (Simons) Dyachenko
WMF Romania and friends created this card for the WMF Omaha office staff using recycled envelopes and fun photos.
Sunday’s three-hour service had left me exhausted. I quickly changed into some baggy sweats and a T-shirt and began looking for something suitable for lunch. The fridge was a disappointment: ketchup, softening carrots and a bottle of soy sauce.
My search was interrupted by a knock at the door of my apartment. Ah, yes, today was “Easter for the dead” on the Orthodox calendar, a day when people give alms to the poor on behalf of their deceased loved ones.
Outside my door, a boy of about 10 smiled up at me.
“Do you have any food, Miss?”
I studied him carefully, smiling. His small shoulder sagged to rest his heavy, bulging plastic bag on the
hallway floor.
“I’m sorry. You know, I really don’t have anything suitable to give you right now,” I said.
“Hey, well, do you have any toys?” he asked. “Last time I came here the lady who lived here let me come inside, and I played with two little boys and their toys.”
“Well, those little boys don’t live here anymore. But I might just be able to find a toy. You wait here—”
“But can I come in?” he interjected. “The last family who lived here let me come in!”
“No, you just wait there. I’ll be right back.”
I closed the door to his frowning face, half afraid that he might just let himself in while I was in the back bedroom searching for the toy box. But I hadn’t the heart to actually lock the door in his face.
I located the box, way up on top of the wardrobe, climbed up on a chair and shouldered it to the floor with difficulty. Would he like a book? No, they’re all in English. Oh, here was something cute.
I returned to the front door and handed him a red and blue block robot. Its wooden arms, head and legs were attached with elastic, allowing the little figure to either sit or stand and to move its arms.
The boy studied the robot, satisfied.
“My name is Nick.”
“Oh, nice to meet you. My name is Rahela.”
“So do you have any food?”
I showed him my most patient smile, explaining that I was really all out of food at the moment and needed to go to the store to get something for lunch.
“Oh, no,” I thought out loud. “It’s Sunday and the stores close at 1 p.m.” I wished my new friend would leave, but his feet were fixed to the spot. He set down his burden again and began pulling everything out of his yellow plastic bag. Bananas, loaves of bread shaped like 8s, cheeses and various other neatly packaged foods began to fill the hallway floor around him.
“Here, take a loaf of bread. Do you want some eggs? Here, take these,” he said.
Careful hands stretched toward me, offering a loaf of bread and a dozen eggs in a clear plastic bag.
“But you don’t need them? Your family doesn’t need these eggs?” I asked.
“Well, sure we do, but you need them, too.”
Just as I reached out to receive the gift, my roommate came to the door to see who I was talking to.
He held out his hand toward her. “My name is Nick.”
She returned his greeting, then threw me a quizzical look as she glanced at the food in my arms.
“Here, you take a loaf of bread, too,” he offered. Charmed by our new friend’s generosity, she smiled and agreed.
We watched in slightly embarrassed silence as Nick reloaded his bag, lifted his burden and, leaning to one side to balance himself, turned to walk down the stairs.
“Thanks for the food,” I blurted out as he gave us a wave and continued on his way.
Since our first meeting, I’ve learned more about Nick and his family because I walk by his home almost every morning. Nick is actually 11 years old, one of five children, the youngest being only 6 months old.
Epilepsy has forced him to spend time in and out of the hospital. Out of all his school-age siblings, he’s the only one who is not sent to school. He attended first grade, but didn’t pass.
Nick continues to visit me from time to time. It’s been over one year since we first met. Last week I stopped to chat with him as he stood outside the corner store, begging. As we spoke, he asked me again and again where I was headed. Then, without warning, he threw his arms around my waist for a huge bear hug. I smiled.
I am broken by this boy’s love and generosity. How can one so neglected and scorned offer me love? During my interactions with his mother, I’m told that Nick is handicapped, a nuisance and always getting into trouble. His step-father pays little attention to him. Nick spends his days roaming the city, sometimes collecting recyclable garbage for a small return. Yet, from this young heart springs kindness and generosity. Nick is shown contempt, yet he continues to love. How can this be?
“He was despised and rejected by others, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem” (Isa. 53:3).
Somehow, as I study the face of this young boy, I am encountering Christ. I am broken, yet honored to be the recipient of his love.
Nick’s name has been changed to respect his privacy.
Photo: Monica Klepac
Rachel joined the WMF Romania community shortly after graduating from college in 2002. She is currently enjoying a time of sabbatical rest for reading, writing, canoeing, hiking and perfecting her skills on an Irish tin whistle.