It is hard to tell if that is sweat or tears rolling down the cheeks of those around us today, but one thing is clear. Both were earned. When I was a younger man, only a short time out on my own away from the security of my parents, I received a call late one Saturday night. It was my mother.
She called concerned about my father, who owned a small country store deep in the rural pine and oak jungles of central Alabama where deer was the favorite livestock and Mason jars filled with preserves lined the closets.
My Dad had been a Jack-of-all-trades, from bank vice president to school principal, but this store was how he knew he wanted to retire. It had to do with the people.
“The store has burned down,” my mother said.
An angry teen who found he could not buy beer inside the store went around behind it and purposely set the building ablaze.
My mother explained that because of a paperwork mistake or something similar, the new fire insurance my father had pursued would not take effect for 10 more days, meaning the business was a total loss.
I felt instantly the pain of insecurity, hurt, loss and sadness that came over the phone line a long-distance drive away from where I was living.
So many questions. No answers.
Not until that next Monday.
That’s the day our family experienced one of the many miracles life seems to offer those of us who feel blessed.
That Monday, less than two days later, we showed up to pick through the ashes, and Amazing Grace!, there on the lot buzzing to and fro were more than 100 of our neighbors and friends. They had come from every corner of the community, and their mission was obvious.
* * *They were there for a good ol’ fashion barn-raising, or in this case, store-raising.
We counted seven men above the age of 60 up on the roof; three who had recovered from heart attacks.
The women had networked and decided to have a bake sale. They laid out plywood over sawhorses and covered them with cookies and cakes and cold drinks, beckoning all passersby to stop and ask questions. And, to stop and participate, if they wished.
Amazingly, some of the strangers did just that.
It was quite the spectacle, and the spirit was infectious. By Golly, somebody needed help, and everyone was determined to see they got it!
There were even people in the crowd that ended feuds that day. I’m talking, Hatfield-and-McCoy caliber feuds. Yet there they were, sharing hammers and nails, bruises and sweat.
Nine days later, my Dad’s store reopened.
And the words community grocery seemed to have an entirely new meaning.
* * *I look back on those days, and I find myself wondering now what feeling is more special: The one of receiving, or the one of giving.
During those days of trial and tribulation, there was no doubt. My family was in a tough situation, and the joy of receiving meant so much, in so many ways.
Oh, sure, the rebuilt store would mean a return to financial security, but that paid so little in contrast to the renewed friendships and love that was shared. How could anyone, let alone so many and some of them strangers, feel this obliged to work so hard to help us?
But they did.
Habitat for Humanity in the days since has taught me what it feels like to be on the other end, the giving end. Every time I hammer a nail, cut a piece of siding, drop a piece of grass or clean up a yard, I’m helping someone feel good.
I wish I could say it is the new homeowner. However, it is most definitely me.
Sure, the new homeowners say thank you. But as a Habitat volunteer, it is I saying thank you. This feeling of giving is a pretty darn good feeling. I hope it stays infectious.
Imagine that.
