Photo by Glen Bledsoe

For mom, it must not have felt like she was giving enough until it hurt a little.

She would dip into the storehouse and always come up with a heaping scoop, leaving me to wonder what sort of glaring hollow was left behind its closed doors. But no matter – that seemed to be her measuring stick for good giving.

At times, I worried. Is it compulsion? There was sheer repetition of it all – in one swift motion to give and give, again and again. In no petty ways, either – it seemed to cost her. The thing, the place, the semblance of peace and reaping of her hard work had to wait, turned over, and reimagined.

As a grown daughter, I would sometimes reprimand my mom: “These people are grown adults – would your giving enable their lifestyle that keeps reaching for your help?” “Their lifestyle,” as if immigrant “lifestyle” is a life of free and perfect choices; of course I said it knowing full well that many of the circumstances were regrettably complex, oppressive even, with a chaotic mix of misfortune and personal agency.

Secretly, I challenged from what place she was offering so liberally and continuously. Is it for praise? Is it for worth? Is it for identity? Is it selfish? When I did not imagine God at the center of it all, it felt at the least futile – because of supply and demand – and crazy because, well, supply and demand. Supply was limited with mom as the sole supplier – as hard-working, strategic and savvy as she was. It was fatiguing to watch the flow of her seemingly unending and eternal help for others without Eternity and the God who is Eternal in my view.

I have been raised on a bountiful diet, feasting on stories like that one time when mom placed her entire month’s paycheck into the love offering basket for a missionary whose name I cannot remember to a country since I have forgotten. That’s because that wasn’t the only time it happened, and how can I keep up with all their names and countries let alone keep the two perfectly matched? There were family members who experienced tragedy after tragedy, and others still who had a dream that needed funding, entirely from her. Emergencies began to feel familiar when couples would walk, run, rush into our homes for crisis counseling and intervention while my sister and I kept company quietly in our room together.

There were passionate and prayerful meetings about the future of religious education for the children of immigrants burning brightly into wee hours of the dark night; she would rise again before sun made its way up for what else – Morning Prayer Service. I recall hushed discussions and knowing looks before calling the bank, preparing a room, giving away the car… these are familiar tales in our family. I have been richly nourished in their giving, treasure chest full of jewels to pass down to feed the next generations, and to add some of my own. In my feasting I catch the wisdom of my mom’s giving life: that giving is two-way, or perhaps a multi-way street where the giver and the receiver and even the bystander are all affected – and here’s where I add my own clarity – for good.

If virtue is doing good with joy – doing the will of God with joy – then we must necessarily find its center in Christ and not our own selves. Just give it time and a propensity for generosity may be met with misunderstanding, dwindling appreciation, and even empty pockets with worn holes. Even the most vigilant of us who steer clear of prodigality and routinely loosen our tightfistedness to stay the course will still fall and fail. When we keep our eyes on the law, we must troubleshoot often to be watchful in our technicality lest we fail to imitate, conjure up, and maintain that illusive freedom and abundance we can only have by faith in Christ. All have fallen short of the glory of God.

So when we do, we need to return to Christ at the center.  Jesus has given us his very own self by laying his flesh and blood, affection and passion down as red carpet to be tread to the Father, who is the Lord, Creator, Sustainer and Giver of all. When Jesus comes more fully in our view – even into our very own storehouses – his way becomes our way, his truth becomes our truth, and his life becomes our life.

When the storehouse seems to run low, don’t fret – Jesus is Lord of the storehouse. Glaring hollows are gloriously hallowed with his presence. Find him who is always with us. Watch what he does – because, that’s what mom’s doing. “Therefore, imitate [mom], as [she] imitates Christ.” Amen.

Joanne Moon is a wholehearted wife and mom who is prayerfully and playfully engaging the world through conversation with God and people. She is in deep study of soul care, spiritual formation and spiritual theology with the Church and the world in mind. She loves to write, take pictures and tell a story. She loves to look you deep in your soul and listen to yours, too. Together with her husband and three children, they are navigating the adventure that autism brings with God’s enduring companionship and the support of family and friends.