On my dresser sits a small, intricate container that was given to my grandmother by a visitor from China. My mom was just a baby, unaware of the stranger who held her and shared a common joy with the mother she would lose too soon. Grandma died when mom was only 5 years old, but already she had given mom the beautiful little bowl.
It became a touchstone she never lost, as if it held her mother’s love and beauty within its empty space.
It is round and blue, rimmed in brass where the lid meets the bowl and complicated black patterns flow across the varying shades of blue. Nestled beside it is a little brass elephant given to me by another visitor from China when I was a little girl. The identity of the first visitor is a complete mystery and the second visitor seems like it might have been two…a couple, but I was very little and am not really sure.
Later, during a time of great challenge in my life, I was befriended by a Chinese woman. She had traveled the world, known many places and peoples. We were both mothers, but she was older and wiser. Her kindness was life-changing as she took me under her wing, introducing me to art and food, culture and beauty that widened and graced my small world, allowing me and my children access to things and people beyond my reach. We were neighbors across an alley, and as she said, “the back door is always open, come over any time.” Her home became a sanctuary, a refuge in time of storm. I am no longer sure where or how we first met, but I was as welcome in her workspace as I was in her home.
Under her desk, in the art museum where she worked, there were treasures stashed that she would give to others. One day she pulled out a beautiful pair of wool socks, woven with gold threads. It was a cold, hard winter and heating bills were high, the tension between food and fuel ever present, pressing and pushing, making my feet cold and my heart chilled with worry. They were socks more fancy than I had ever seen. All that winter they warmed my feet and thawed out my heart. I wore them to pieces, my feet glowing in gold and soft ivory wool.
One day she whispered my children and me into the museum after hours. An artist was there preparing an exhibit, building huge nest-like structures out of newly harvested willows from the river bottom. Introduced to the artist, we were given a magical gift, watching and learning as he built and created fresh pieces, fragrant and holy. Then he invited us to crawl into one of his finished nests—a gift we have never forgotten. It was as if the torn and tattered places of our lives were suddenly woven together in hope, in the possibility of a new day.
My friend offered and lived hospitality more amazing than any I could ever have imagined. She was Buddhist; I was Christian, blessed with the freedom of friendship unmarred by divisions of religion or race. I was only one of many whom she befriended and blessed, but she made each of us feel special and precious. This was particularly visible when she died and we all gathered in one place, so many we spilled out the door, like some cup running over in love.
Each month a member of the Cook County Ministerium will offer Spiritual Reflections. This week our contributor is Pastor Beth Benson of the First Congregational Church, United Church of Christ.
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