I've been to a conference this morning where the mantra was "nothing for free" with regards to charitable response to people in need. And I find it funny how three words can set a train of thought in motion that would lead to my seeing clearly for the first time the two dynamic and different interventions of my parents - mom in her way, and my father in his at another time a few years later - that were at points of critical intersections for the direction of my life.
I've always seen the intervention of my father as most prominent, and it's a story I have told frequently in various ways. He was, in my teens, the local "narc." He was the police officer in my hometown who committed his professional focus and development to the attention of drug control. This was in the 1970's at what at that time could only be seen as the peak of that mountainous monster that was subversively destroying many a young life. Dad felt a call and a passion to educate everyone he encountered with the realities of the harm and waste of recreational drug use.
That passion, however, did not sit well with my high school classmates. I became a target of harassment. My young gentle self did not handle that well, and after many months of receiving insults, spits, and threats from the gang that stood outside the band room door (my favored sanctuary in the entire school once I entered in), I broke down after a threat made against my father. Threaten me all you want, but the moment you begin threatening my hero dad you've made headway into affecting Rhonda's well being. I made my way to the guidance counselor who made two major mistakes: he asked first if I was "ashamed" of what my father did in drug enforcement in the community, and then proceeded into his course of solution - which he found impossible because I wasn't a guy. He actually said to me, "There's nothing I can do. If you were a guy I'd give you permission to fight them." Incredulous then. Incredulous now, forty years later.
His only positive move was to mention the situation to the principal. Who mentioned it to my father. Who called me into his bedroom to privately identify from my yearbook the handful of major offenders. A few days later, Dad happened upon one of the little guys sitting on the curb hurling similar insults to drivers by the local Burger Chef. My dad came up behind the little guy, silently (not unlike a Doberman that doesn't bark on approach - only upon arrival at the target) and said, "I understand you and some of your friends have been bothering my daughter, Rhonda." Terror struck the little guy at the sight of the James Garner looking superman of a hero man that was the man standing before him, and he took off running. Dad took off, too, and in the stuff of legends, outran the little guy, got him in a hold by the collar and made warning that not another word - not another word -should be spoken in my direction. "OK! OK! OK! And I'll tell all my friends to apologize to her. And I'll apologize to her!" "No. not another word. not even an apology," And not another word ever was. Ever. Freedom for Rhonda. Protection. Appreciation. All things good about intervening and speaking up against what just isn't right. And, I try to carry that on.
This morning, though, with thoughts of "nothing for free" still ringing in my head, I land on the powerful moment that my mother came forward for me. It was when I was in 6th grade. For two years I had longed for the moment that I could be in the band at school. I'd dreamed of it since hearing the only classical album in our home in the mix of Country Western and Elvis. My ears danced on hearing a Dvorak symphony! And, I was to play flute, of course! My moment arrived, mom and I took off for the introductory band parent meeting, and arrived in the band room where the various instruments gleamed all around the room in their open cases. I was in heaven. Then, Mr. Proffitt began to speak to the cost of the instruments, and I realized two things: I hadn't thought about that part of this whole deal, and my dream was slipping away. I knew my family did not have funds to put toward this kind of investment. It was over for me before it began. But wait! Afterwards, my gentle and quiet mother began making her way through the crowd toward the band director, and, like a tiny barge, pulled me along behind her. I had no idea what she was doing. Why weren't we heading for the door?
She approached the band director and stated that her daughter was very much looking forward to being in the band. Family resources, especially after having just bought a neighbor's piano (with money borrowed from one of her dear brothers, I now remember), did not allow for the purchase of an instrument. I heard these words floating out there somewhere. And then she went where it's really hard to go. She asked if there was any option of my getting in someway, anyway, that would make it possible for me. My whole life hinged on that question. And on the answer.
The band director looked excitedly at me, spun on his heal and took off across the room. He rushed back across the room with a fully assembled bassoon held horizontally across his hands. I had never seen such a sight. He thrust it toward me, beamed, and said, "She can play this!" It's owned by the school and won't cost you anything." I never even thought twice though I didn't even know what this thing was. It got me in.
Turned out, it's the only instrument I have any real ability on. It was Divine intervention at its finest. I played bassoon and won scholarships to college. Bassoon was my ticket. And it was free. It was free. Yes, there was responsibility in response to the gift. Yes, there was a lot of hard work invested. Yes, we had to buy reeds. But, the bassoon was free. No rental charge. Or maybe there was and Mr. Proffitt paid it. I don't know. But my mother wasn't put in a position of having to grovel, or confess how much or how little she might be able to put toward it. It was free.
And, it changed my life. I could not possibly value it any more than I did and still do, even if it had "cost " us something.
And, that causes me to think on the Grace of God. It, too, is free. There is nothing we can do to purchase it or validate it with a fee. However, though free, the Grace of God requires a response. A responsibility to ourselves and to others. That's where the pay comes in.
May we never, never, never, hesitate to give freely. Never. Jesus Christ says give to everyone who asks of you (Luke 6:30).
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