My name is Malyapha and I was born in Central Africa. I want to tell you the story of my childhood experience, when God was trying to teach me about sharing.

I came from a poor family, and I did not like to share what we had with others. We did not have much at all, but even if you do not have much of anything, you can still be selfish with the little that you have. No matter how much or little you have, if you’re not willing to share with those who have a need, then you’re selfish.

We all have our favourite things. It might be a toy, a dress, a hat, a special stone, or even a place we like to go to be all alone. It’s hard to let someone else have or use our favourite things. Sometimes we know someone else needs something we have, even more than we do, but it isn’t always easy to give it to that person, because we think that if we give it away it will make us poorer. Have you ever felt that way? Well, I remember clearly the time I learned that God gives a special reward to you when you share what you have with someone in need.

I grew up in a poor family in a humble little house that was very crowded with all my brothers and sisters. We had very little. Grandmother often lived with us too, and she was a real interesting person. She was full of stories, but I didn’t always believe them. But at least she made life interesting and broke up the monotony of the long summer evenings when there wasn’t much to do.

My mother was like an angel. She never complained, even when I knew she was so tired she could hardly keep going. She worked hard, but always with a smile on her face, and speaking positive and kind words. I never could figure out, at least not until I was much older, how she could manage to be so happy when life seemed to be so difficult. She had so little, but she was constantly giving to others.

Sometimes it seemed to me that other people took advantage of her kindness. I resented that people asked so much of her and never seemed to give her anything back. But she didn’t mind: she said God would repay. She always told me that, and I know she believed it. I now know that God was repaying her in all sorts of ways; I just never noticed then. But regardless of what I saw or didn’t see, she believed it. There was no doubt about that.

My mother always told me, “Care for others and God will take care of you.”

You wouldn’t believe how many times she told me that. Was it true? In the beginning I certainly didn’t believe it. Everything she taught me I understood and I was prepared to do—except giving to those who would come to our door. I just couldn’t understand it.

Whenever I was at home and Mother was gone, I refused to follow her example. If people would come to our door, expecting the same loving generosity that my mother gave, I met them with a cold, icy stare and a stern, “Go away! ” We hardly have enough for ourselves, I would think. How can we give to beggars?

That was the year our village was hit by a terrible drought. The harvest was meagre, and grass for grazing animals was soon gone. The streams and wells were drying up. It was the worst time I’d ever seen. You could see concern on the faces of many of the adults. They tried to hide it from us children, but we knew something was wrong—terribly wrong.

Slowly, our stock of food dwindled. Our meals became very plain, with less and less to eat each passing week. Some of the families in our village were suffering more than we were, because they had more children to feed, or one or both of their parents were sick, or gone away. In some cases, one of the parents or the older child would go to the city to look for work, but then there would be no word from them.

A dark feeling of despair came over our whole village. It was a deep, silent sadness; it was unspoken, but it was there, as real as your shadow. For me, there was only one ray of sunshine, and that was my mother. She never seemed to fear or worry. She spent many hours in quietness. I didn’t know what she was doing, so one day I asked her. She said she was praying, praying to the God of love. Mother always had a great peace that was hard to explain. I didn’t mind her praying. What bothered me was when she would give of the little food we had to feed others who would come to our door. I thought they were just taking our food, but my mother would say that they were opening the windows of Heaven for us so we could be blessed by this opportunity to share.

I never saw my mother turn anyone away. No matter how little we had, she always took a portion of it—whether it was food, firewood or water—and gave to whoever was asking.

My father was very understanding. He said that he’d learned long ago not to meddle in my mother’s beliefs. He said he’d seen that the God she loved so much never failed her. He, too, was sometimes concerned by her generosity, but he never said that she couldn’t give; he never closed our door to someone in need. Like Mother, he believed that our home was blessed and that goodness flowed in as a result of our giving.

But then something terrible happened. One day as my mother went to fetch water and gather wood, she was bitten by a snake—one of the bad ones whose bite can cause death. For the most part, this type of snake, small and red, had left the area long ago, I guess because there were too many people, too much activity. This “red devil,” as it was called, preferred to avoid people.

It seemed like an unfair, horrible mistake that God would allow this creature to strike my mother, of all people. She was an angel. She didn’t deserve it! I felt extremely angry in my heart. It seemed to me that the God of love my mother had talked about had not done much to reward her. He had not even taken care of her or protected her from this red devil. What kind of God was that? I felt scared and angry at the same time.

Word quickly spread that my mother had been bitten. There was no antivenin serum anywhere close for that kind of snakebite. The closest medical centre was many, many miles away. Those who knew about snakebites did what they could to suck out the poison, but the situation was serious. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the life begin to drain from her eyes and the colour from her lips. Her breathing become very laboured and she had trouble seeing. Her leg had swollen up and though she tried to hide it from us, I knew the pain was very great.

I was very worried for her. My mother was in so much pain that it made her cry, though even then she bravely tried to smile at me if she knew I was looking at her. She didn’t want me to be too scared. I must have fallen asleep crying. The next thing I knew it was morning and a doctor was there at ending to my mother. He had come in a jeep from a long way. I found out that when the people who knew my mother heard about her need, they did everything they could to get help for her. It was quite remarkable all that they went through to get the doctor to come so quickly. The doctor called this kind of snakebite the “slow killer,” because unless treated, a person was likely to die a very slow and painful death.

The doctor did what he could, but was not sure that my mother would live. She was very weak and the poison had done much damage. When my father asked what we could do for her, the doctor said she needed rest, lots of liquids, good food and if possible, something sweet like honey, to give her more energy and to help counteract the effects of this poison. Good food? Honey? Where could we find such things? That is when the first miracle happened. When people in the village heard what she needed, they began bringing small offerings of food to our house, but still it was not enough to sustain us and to help my mother recover.

Because of my mother’s weakened condition, the responsibility of the house now rested on my shoulders. That afternoon I heard a timid knock at the door. It was so slight I could hardly hear it. When I opened the door, there stood the tiniest little girl. She was dirty, skinny and a mess in every way. She even smelled. Poor thing! She put out her hand and said, “I have been told that your house is a house of goodness. Please, can you give me some food? My mother and new baby brother are starving.”

I don’t know why, but I felt angry. I almost slammed the door. How could anyone come asking for food at a time like this? My poor mother needed all the food we had and then some to survive. That is when the second miracle happened. I heard my mother’s voice saying, “Give to him that asks of you.”

At least I thought I had heard her say it, as she had said to me so many times before, but when I went to her bed, she was asleep. I bent over and kissed her and as I did, I saw a picture in my mind—I was giving someone a piece of beautiful gold. As soon as I did, a hand reached down from Heaven and put an even bigger piece of gold in my hand.

I had not seen very much gold before, but the belief in our village was that gold was the colour of the gods. Our ancestors believed that gold was the smile of God, and the flecks of gold in the rocks and sand were the evidence of God’s blessing. Still wondering what all this meant, I returned to the small hungry girl at our door. I knew I could not refuse her, if only for my mother’s sake. I went over to a barrel where we stored meal. I had to reach far down into the barrel to dip out half of what little was left.

Then I took a pitcher and drew her water. What I was doing didn’t make sense. Mother needed good food. We all needed food and here I was giving away our lifeline, our very existence. And to whom? I didn’t even recognize this poor bedraggled little figure.

But I sensed that there was something special about this visit. After she left, I wondered what would become of us. I so wished my mother was well enough to tell me a story, as she was always ready to tell me a tale of miracles. She seemed to believe so deeply that whatever you would wish for deep in your heart could come to pass, if it was something for the good of others.

How alone I felt! I missed my mother’s support. I missed her eyes, her smile, the peaceful aura that was always about her.

I remembered that sometimes she’d go for long walks, she called them her “time with God.” I never could figure it out, but they seemed to make her so happy. She said whenever she needed to think and talk to God, she would go to the quiet place.

I wondered if it would work for me. Maybe I needed to talk to God. I figured I had nothing to lose. Mother was asleep now and others of my family had just come home and could watch her, so I set out not even knowing where I was going. It didn’t seem to matter. But I felt almost a presence with me. It was comforting, warm. Then for the first time that I can remember, I actually talked to God.—I asked Him to do something to show His existence, to reveal Himself. I felt bad about such a presumptuous first conversation, but I figured if He was really God, then surely He could do that, and easily.

Nothing happened. There was no lightning, no voice, no vision. All I felt was a pulling sensation on my heart. I felt drawn into the wilderness area that was a ways away from our village. I rarely went there—no one did, as people were superstitious and said it was where the evil spirits lived. But I didn’t feel afraid, I felt safe. I didn’t even feel alone. It was the strangest thing I’d ever felt.

Then I saw it. No, it wasn’t a magical statue, or an image of gold or a miracle rainbow, it was a swarm of bees preparing to leave their hive. There were thousands of them. I had never seen such a huge swarm—and so golden. The sun reflected off them in a radiant golden glow like the gold of God’s smile.

I feel I hardly have to tell you the rest of my story, as I’m sure anyone who knows of the goodness of God knows that Mother soon had some honey. There was enough for all of us, and in time her health returned. There are a lot of things I do not understand about life, but one thing I have learned is that God can and does take care of His children, even in times of trouble. And He does answer prayer. He answered mine. And there is something else I now believe: If you reach out your hand to help others in need, God will reach out His hand to help you. I believe it, and now I nod each time my mother smiles sweetly and says, “You never lose by giving.”

Author unknown. If anyone has a proprietary interest in this story please authenticate and I will be happy to credit, or remove, as the circumstances dictate.

Send by Arch37@aol.com