It was a hot south Indian summer afternoon when Deepa's father came to visit his daughters. He looked terrible. In the weeks leading up to the visit, his health had gotten progressively worse. He would frequently be found passed out in the communal toilet in his slum, sometimes lying in his own diarrhea. The man was obviously in the final stages of the disease. I thought his two little girls were going to splinter his frail bones when they jumped up onto his lap that afternoon.
A couple days after his visit, Deepa's father committed suicide. The humiliation, the pain, and the decay of his body pushed him over the edge. He took his life to bring an end to his suffering. As you can imagine, his daughters were heartbroken. Phileena and I rushed to the home to find Deepa and Charu weeping. We held these little ones close, prayed with them, tried to encourage them with Scripture, and promised we'd be there for them when they needed us. Our hearts were broken.
In the sad series of goodbyes that our lives seem to offer us, it came time for Phileena and me to once again pack up and leave Chennai. We spent our last day with the children at the home. Deepa and Charu stayed close to us the entire day. When everyone had hugged and exchanged tearful goodbyes, we walked past the gates of the home, turned around one last time to wave, and noticed Deepa had run inside. Before we could close the gate, she came running out of the home with a single yellow rose bud in hand. Deepa stood there, her face soaked in her own tears, holding out the flower to Phileena.
After her father had died, they cleaned out his slum and discovered that his only possession was a dismal potted rose bush with a solitary bud. It was her inheritance, the last reminder of her deceased parents. How could we take it?
I take that flower with me everywhere, showing it as often as I can to illustrate this little, tender, revolutionary heart. It is pressed into the place in my Bible where Jesus is in the temple spying on the donors to the treasury. In the story, he calls his disciples over and lets them in on the scene that's unfolding. There are some wealthy folks making substantial offerings, when out of nowhere comes a poor widow who puts some change in the collection, probably some near-valueless reworked Hasmonean copper coins.
These guys are eager to figure out what Jesus has in mind, but what he tells them must have shocked them. Christ does not venerate the high rollers in the group but points out the widow and claims her as his own. "She's mine," he must have thought. "I choose her." He goes on to say, "All of these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on" (Luke 21:4). The story suddenly became not about what was given, but what was left over--nothing.
Extract from Simple Spirituality by Chris .L. Heuertz.
