When I was growing up, in the late 1950's-early 1960's, I learned a lesson in values regarding charity.
The suburban neighborhood I grew up in was embarrassingly stereotypical: old fashioned values with a twist of twentieth-century sophistication. On what use to be rolling green farm hills & fields, the developers cut roads and subdivided the land into 1/2 acre lots. Ranch and bungalow-style houses sprung up like dandelions in our newly seeded lawns. For the most part, mothers stayed home & cared for their children while fathers were absent, busy working their hearts out to provide for their families, not just food & clothing but also Huffy bicycles, Flexible Flyer sleds, Barbie dolls -- all the other necessary niceties that insured middle class status.
Religion in our neighborhood was pretty much passé- most of the families were WASPS with a few Catholic and Jewish families thrown in for variety's sake. My next door neighbors, the Fox family, were thought of as odd in that they practiced religious beliefs that were somewhat more zealous than the norm. The other families in the neighborhood sometimes secretly ridiculed the church, referring to it as a foot-stomping, Bible-thumping, practically snake-handling place of worship. Oblivious, the Fox family attended services three times a week and followed the church's creed forbidding members to play cards, drink liquor, or go to the movies. Mrs. Fox wore no makeup or jewelry , and the Fox daughters wore below-the-knee length dresses year round-no shorts or halter tops for the females in this household.
Despite our differences, the families in the neighborhood coexisted with little problems, that is, until Mr. Fox, the father, went and did the unthinkable-- he up and died. Dying young wasn't supposed to happen and was never spoken about, being right up there with divorce and adultery-- taboo tragedies to be avoided at all costs. But there we had it, Mr. Fox had dropped dead at work last night, age 37, leaving his poor wife and kids to fend for themselves. With hushed tones, and sad-shaking heads, the other parents from the community came together at my house to take up a collection for the widow and her children. Knowing Mrs. Fox would put up a fight rather than accept charity, a plan was laid whereby three of the mothers, my mom included, were chosen to go to the house together , and force the (much too proud) Mrs. Fox to forsake her pride, think of her children if not of herself, and accept the donation.
The proverbial hat was passed around, adults reached deep into their pockets, and even we children were encouraged to empty our piggy banks. This would be a lesson in charity for all, my parents declared. The other families agreed it was the perfect time to teach their children that charity means giving until it hurts.
The money was collected, over $800 , not a small sum in those days, and bundled, ready for the giving process the next morning. Everyone went to bed that night feeling righteous and good-- look how wonderful we all are, helping out the poor, probably soon-to-be starving neighbors.
The next morning, my mom got dressed, put on her makeup, high heels, and Evening In Paris cologne, and together with the other two women chosen, took the money bundle over to the Fox household. As expected, Mrs. Fox wouldn't accept the donation. The women pleaded, using the thought-to-be-sure-fire argument "think of your children!" only to be countered by Mrs. Fox, "My children are fine. We'll find a way to get by. The Lord always provides for those in need."
Not to be discouraged, my mother, with a stroke of genius, said, "You just quit being so proud and stubborn. You take this money and use it for whatever you need. Don't forget the Bible says 'pride goeth before a fall.'"
There was silence. Mrs. Fox looked to the other women who nodded their heads in agreement. Finally, tears in her eyes, Mrs. Fox shook her head, whispering, "Thank you. May the Lord bless you all."
For the second night in a row, everyone in our house went to bed feeling good.
The next day, when all should have been perfect, I awoke again to hushed tones from my parents. This time with a slight bitter, hurt undertone to them. I asked what was wrong and was told this: The charitable contribution, that money which had been hard-earned, saved, and collected, that money that had been offered in good faith and finally accepted by the widow and her children, had in turn been given as a donation by Mrs. Fox to her own church.
I talked to my friends and found out much the same was being said in their houses. That day will forever go down in my memory as the day we all, parents and children alike, learned a lesson in values-- charity means giving until it hurts.
