I got a book today. But I didn't order it off Amazon or buy it from the local bookstore. I didn't check it out from the library. I didn't even download it to my iPad. Today I got a book, wrapped up all nice and neat, from someone who has been dead for a year.
There is a family in our town that I've gotten to know over the years - they belong to another Presbyterian church in town; an African-American church. They have welcomed me into their lives as their de-facto minister of sorts, given the fact that they do not have one of their own. I'm most grateful for this. Like a lot of small churches, it is comprised of just a few families covering many generations. A year ago today, one of the church's matriarchs passed away. She was in her 90's. Her name was Gladys, but everyone around here knew her as "Big Mama."
Yesterday I received an invitation in the mail for what the family called a "floating celebration of remembrance." It was at Big Mama's house, now occupied by a daughter and granddaughter. I went there and mixed and mingled with a couple dozen other family members and friends. Ate some cake, had a cup of coffee. We talked about our lives, our families, what was keeping us busy. And we talked about Big Mama, of course. She was there with us too.
Her presence was most obvious to me, though, as I got up to leave. It came in the form of a wrapped present. I had seen them in a pile beside the door when I first walked in, and in a moment of panic wondered if I had neglected to bring a gift that was mentioned in the invitation. No, I was told, this was not a gift I was to bring. This was a gift for me. From Big Mama. See, Big Mama was an avid reader during her 90-plus years, compiling a nifty little library of mostly inspirational books. Since her death a year earlier the family had found homes for most of them, but not all. So they wrapped what was left and gave them to people as they left this floating celebration of remembrance. A book from Big Mama for everyone.
I walked out the front door with this random book wrapped in random wrapping paper. And while I was curious about what book it was, I was more captivated by the thought: Big Mama, one year after her death, had given me a book! I was told it was very likely that there would be notes written in there; sentences highlighted that she thought were of some value. Maybe a bookmark or two. Maybe a dedication on the opening page from whoever gave it to her in the first place; someone who, like me, had appreciated the way she had touched their life and wanted to thank her for it.
And that's when I understood that the gift really wasn't the book. It was - it had always been - her life. Anyone's life. The book was just a symbol of that gift. So when I took the wrapping paper off and started thumbing through the pages, seeing the notes and bookmarks, I wasn't really thinking about the book at all. I was thinking about a person and the fact that, even in death, she was still giving herself to me, still giving to so many.
That's something we all have the ability to do, you know - in the way we live our lives and how we touch others and how we try to make this world just a little bit better than the way we found it. The greatest gift we can ever give to others is ourselves. As Big Mama showed me most profoundly, that is the true gift that keeps on giving.
I know you want to know what the book is. For the record, it's Max Lucado's When God Whispers Your Name. I think I heard God whispering to me today. I'll try to pay attention more often.






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