It Must Be a Gift
“The value of the myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by ‘the veil of familiarity.’" —CS Lewis, On Stories
Truth can feel terribly old-fashioned these days. Jesus made use of story to speak difficult truth in a way that could capture the hearts of everyone—the uneducated and those who were too educated for their own good. To both the first-century farmer and the modern businessman, the seed strangled by the weeds of worry is all too relatable. To the Pharisee and to the prejudiced, the good Samaritan exposes the ugliness that might be otherwise be hidden behind 10 dollar words. Children can understand stories. Grown-ups (like me) can endure their truth, which—in another form—I might easily reject. Because even where a story exposes my sin, there is something sweetly healing about the sting.
She walks into the pawn shop again, her face a muddle of resolve and resignation. This is the third time she has come today. Every day is the same. Coming in hopeful, leaving in despair. Sometimes once. Sometimes a few times a day. Sometimes she just steps in and steps out endlessly. Always the same questions. Always the same answers.
She walks to the register and sees the Pawnbroker there, always waiting, always optimistic that today will be the day they close the deal. Before him on the counter sits the item for which she has come in: a small, wooden cup with a glossy red lining. The rim winks like a ruby at the sun dappled window.
The Pawnbroker smiles warmly at her approach.
“I’m glad you’re here.” His voice is as thick as chilled honey.
“I’ve come for the cup,” she confesses.
“Here it is.”
“I’ve brought money. More than last time,” she murmurs—half to him and half to herself—while she fumbles around in her tacky old purse with the fringe and missing sequins. She pulls out bills in various denominations. Single dollars which she just piles in a crumpled mess. Fives and tens, which she smoothes out and sets aside. And then hundreds. She grooms these the most, ironing the bent corners with her pinched fingers and furrowed brow—placing them prominently before him with such delicate, meticulous attention it borders on worship.
“That’s not enough.”
“I know, but I can bring more,” the first familiar note of despair breaking in upon her words. “Please let me take it, and I promise I can come back with more.”
His brown eyes are warm and golden with compassion, but she feels so transparent. Like he sees much more than she’s agreed to. Like he sees not only the shape and color of her sad eyes as anyone could, but their flavor and timbre as well. She wonders how a person so serene can feel alarming.
“Take it. It’s my gift to you,” he replies, in a voice nearer to a plea than a command.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she says, as she drops her eyes to the counter. “It wouldn’t be right. I have to pay for it. I can’t just take it. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“It’s not meant to be fair,” he says. He says it calmly and with such patience that no one would suspect how often he’s said it before. Is it a hundred times now? A thousand? Too many to count.
“That’s absurd,” she spits back abruptly, her voice now revealing the edge it often does just before she storms out of the shop. “I have to buy it. I have to. I don’t need your charity.” She is angry at the salt sting in her narrowed eyes. “I’m not going to just take something that I’m fully capable of paying for.”
“The price is more than you can pay, but I am offering it as a gift. Will you not take it?”
“I CAN’T!” she exclaims, the fever pitch betraying desperation. “I refuse to accept something that I can and should buy for myself! It isn’t right! Is there no amount you will take for it?”
The tenderness in his voice remains steady, though the corners of his lips incline gently downward. “It could only be purchased once, and I've already paid the price. The only cost now is that it must be a gift, or none at all.”
He slides the cup across the glass until the cool wood skims her fingers. She lifts her eyes, and she wonders at his tears.
“I bought it for you.” His kindness weakens her like a wound.
“I can pay!” she argues. But her voice bleats and quivers like a dying balloon, until she faintly whispers, “I don’t deserve it.”
“That’s why I want you to have it, don’t you see?” he says. “Please, take it. Please. And each time you drink from it, think of me.” His arms are extended now, reaching out to her with the cup in his open hand.
The bell shivers a silvery ring, and with a whir the door sweeps shut.
Her sad eyes scroll the pavement as she walks, walks wistfully, walks always.
She tells herself she’ll bring enough tomorrow.
If I'm honest, there are still many days I don't want to be God's charity case.
As if I could ever be anything else.
Praise be to Jesus. Amen.
Kailey Newkirk is the reGROUP Director at Summit Church. She enjoys learning, writing, and speaking (in that exact order) and she prefers to turn left into parking spots. Like all parents, she believes she has the smartest and most attractive child in existence. Kailey is also a sci-fi nerd and reads C.S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia every night to fall asleep.