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with Kathleen Gibson Every Small and Kind Thing I have come to believe something I learned at the expense of a child. On a trip to visit a charitable work for Dalit women in India, I brought multiple Canada flag pins. In dusty rural villages I gave them to the children who clustered around me like so many moths. They accepted them almost reverently, as though I'd given them something truly valuable. One day, after the children had dispersed, I realized I needed to be more careful with my flag supply. There�d be another village tomorrow, and the next day yet another, and my trip was just beginning. But one boy returned with a smaller boy, around four, his large brown eyes shining. "Aunty," the older child said, "Could you please give my brother a flag? He missed you giving." "I'm sorry," I said. "I have no more to give." But I felt terribly guilty, thinking of the remaining flags in my purse. "Auntie, he's only such a little boy,� his answer came back. �Please give him also a flag." They can be very cunning rascals, I'd been told of these adorable children. You must be firm, our Indian Jeep driver had cautioned, as had fellow travelers who�d been to India before. As soon as you give something away, they�d said, others�hovering�will come begging. I've never had this happen before: my heart felt broken and hardened at the same time. Like his brother said, the child was only a child, and a little one at that. With trembling lips. But I stayed firm, held out my empty hands. "Sorry, love, I have no more to give!" Both children looked at me strangely�at my eyes first, at my left shoulder, at my face again. "Please, Auntie," the older requested. "See how he is full of tears." So was I, inside. But I continued to insist I had no flags to give. They walked away from me then, the older with his arm around the crying youngster. I felt an awful conflict of emotions; anger at myself; wanting to give, but knowing that that around the next corner waited more children like them. Only after I arrived back at my sleeping quarters did I realize what the children had seen on my shoulder. My own Canadian flag pin; the pin I�d gladly have given had I remembered I�d been wearing it. I distributed saris to a hundred Dalit women on that trip, and blankets and pillows to an entire orphanage. But if I could go back and relive one memory, I�d go back to Yemmiganur, Andhra Pradesh and change one thing: I�d give that little boy a Canadian flag. This I have come to believe, and far too slowly, to act on: To keep myself human, I must do every small and kind thing my heart tells me to, as much as I am able, with all the love I have. God put it there, and he meant me to give it away. �2008 Kathleen Gibson Respond Home |
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