The Paradox of An Open Hand
by Mark Wash
There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth; and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty. The liberal soul shall be made fat: and he that watereth shall be watered also himself. He that withholdeth corn, the people shall curse him: but blessing shall be upon the head of him that selleth it. ~Proverbs 11:24-26
On the edge of a small, bustling city lived an elderly woman named Miriam. Her home, a tidy cottage tucked behind a wild, flowering hedge, was known as much for its overflowing garden as for Miriam’s ever-open door. Neighbors spoke of her with a mix of affection and quiet wonder. Some said she had little, but all agreed that if you knocked on Miriam’s door, you’d never leave empty-handed.
One gray afternoon, as the first hints of autumn colored the trees, a young man named Lucas trudged up Miriam’s path. His shoulders slumped beneath a coat that no longer kept out the chill, and his eyes carried the heavy ache of worry. Work at the factory had slowed, and his mother’s medicine cost more than he could earn. He hesitated at Miriam’s gate, uncertain, but the fragrant warmth from the kitchen drew him in.
Miriam greeted Lucas with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She ushered him inside, pressing a mug of tea into his hands before he could even ask for help. They sat at her kitchen table as rain tapped gently against the windowpanes. Lucas stared into his tea, his voice trembling. “I don’t mean to impose, Miriam. I just… I’m not sure how much longer we can get by.”
Miriam listened without interruption, her hands folded in her lap. When he finished, she reached for a battered tin and pressed a few bills into his hand. “You’ll find a way, Lucas. And in the meantime, let me help.” He protested—it felt wrong to take from someone who seemed to have so little. She only smiled and shook her head.
“Let me tell you something,” Miriam said, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve learned that when your hand is open, there is always enough. What you give comes back in ways you never expect.”
Lucas walked home lighter than he’d arrived. He wasn’t sure how Miriam’s simple wisdom could be true, but her kindness warmed him long after the tea had cooled. In the days that followed, Lucas found small ways to help others—a meal shared with an old friend, a ride offered to a neighbor. Each time, something surprising happened. A stranger bought his groceries one afternoon. A friend slipped him a gift card for the pharmacy. Hope, it seemed, collected in his life the more he gave it away.
One crisp morning, Lucas passed Miriam’s cottage and noticed her struggling with a heavy crate of apples. He hurried to help, and together they stacked baskets on her porch. As they worked, Miriam told him stories of the years she’d spent caring for her garden and the many mouths it had fed. “Some seasons have been lean,” she admitted. “But I never go hungry. The more I share, the more I find I have.”
Lucas grinned. “It doesn’t make sense on paper. Give more, and you gain more?”
Miriam’s laughter danced across the yard. “That’s just it. God’s economy is different. You can’t always count it in coins.”
As autumn deepened, word spread that a storm had damaged a row of houses down the street. The neighborhood rallied, but it was Miriam who organized the relief. She opened her home for meals, gathered clothes, and filled baskets with apples and jars of preserves. Lucas, now stronger in spirit, was at her side every step, helping wherever he could.
In the end, Miriam’s pantry was nearly bare, her savings thin. Yet, each morning she woke to find bags of groceries on her porch, envelopes of cash slipped through the mail slot, and her garden re-planted by grateful neighbors. Blessing flowed in, just as she had poured it out.
One evening, as the last of the leaves fell, Lucas sat with Miriam watching the sun dip behind the city skyline. “I used to believe you had to hold tight to what you had,” he said. “Now I see—when you open your hands, you make room for something greater.”
Miriam reached over and squeezed his hand. “We don’t give to get, Lucas. We give because love multiplies when we give. That’s the secret.”
As dusk gathered, the lights of the city flickered on, each window glowing with the warmth of community. Lucas understood at last: in a world that measured worth by what you kept, Miriam had taught him the paradox of an open hand—the kind of wealth that could never run out.
Come on, you can do this . . .
by Mark Wash
There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth; and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty. The liberal soul shall be made fat: and he that watereth shall be watered also himself. He that withholdeth corn, the people shall curse him: but blessing shall be upon the head of him that selleth it. ~Proverbs 11:24-26
On the edge of a small, bustling city lived an elderly woman named Miriam. Her home, a tidy cottage tucked behind a wild, flowering hedge, was known as much for its overflowing garden as for Miriam’s ever-open door. Neighbors spoke of her with a mix of affection and quiet wonder. Some said she had little, but all agreed that if you knocked on Miriam’s door, you’d never leave empty-handed.
One gray afternoon, as the first hints of autumn colored the trees, a young man named Lucas trudged up Miriam’s path. His shoulders slumped beneath a coat that no longer kept out the chill, and his eyes carried the heavy ache of worry. Work at the factory had slowed, and his mother’s medicine cost more than he could earn. He hesitated at Miriam’s gate, uncertain, but the fragrant warmth from the kitchen drew him in.
Miriam greeted Lucas with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She ushered him inside, pressing a mug of tea into his hands before he could even ask for help. They sat at her kitchen table as rain tapped gently against the windowpanes. Lucas stared into his tea, his voice trembling. “I don’t mean to impose, Miriam. I just… I’m not sure how much longer we can get by.”
Miriam listened without interruption, her hands folded in her lap. When he finished, she reached for a battered tin and pressed a few bills into his hand. “You’ll find a way, Lucas. And in the meantime, let me help.” He protested—it felt wrong to take from someone who seemed to have so little. She only smiled and shook her head.
“Let me tell you something,” Miriam said, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve learned that when your hand is open, there is always enough. What you give comes back in ways you never expect.”
Lucas walked home lighter than he’d arrived. He wasn’t sure how Miriam’s simple wisdom could be true, but her kindness warmed him long after the tea had cooled. In the days that followed, Lucas found small ways to help others—a meal shared with an old friend, a ride offered to a neighbor. Each time, something surprising happened. A stranger bought his groceries one afternoon. A friend slipped him a gift card for the pharmacy. Hope, it seemed, collected in his life the more he gave it away.
One crisp morning, Lucas passed Miriam’s cottage and noticed her struggling with a heavy crate of apples. He hurried to help, and together they stacked baskets on her porch. As they worked, Miriam told him stories of the years she’d spent caring for her garden and the many mouths it had fed. “Some seasons have been lean,” she admitted. “But I never go hungry. The more I share, the more I find I have.”
Lucas grinned. “It doesn’t make sense on paper. Give more, and you gain more?”
Miriam’s laughter danced across the yard. “That’s just it. God’s economy is different. You can’t always count it in coins.”
As autumn deepened, word spread that a storm had damaged a row of houses down the street. The neighborhood rallied, but it was Miriam who organized the relief. She opened her home for meals, gathered clothes, and filled baskets with apples and jars of preserves. Lucas, now stronger in spirit, was at her side every step, helping wherever he could.
In the end, Miriam’s pantry was nearly bare, her savings thin. Yet, each morning she woke to find bags of groceries on her porch, envelopes of cash slipped through the mail slot, and her garden re-planted by grateful neighbors. Blessing flowed in, just as she had poured it out.
One evening, as the last of the leaves fell, Lucas sat with Miriam watching the sun dip behind the city skyline. “I used to believe you had to hold tight to what you had,” he said. “Now I see—when you open your hands, you make room for something greater.”
Miriam reached over and squeezed his hand. “We don’t give to get, Lucas. We give because love multiplies when we give. That’s the secret.”
As dusk gathered, the lights of the city flickered on, each window glowing with the warmth of community. Lucas understood at last: in a world that measured worth by what you kept, Miriam had taught him the paradox of an open hand—the kind of wealth that could never run out.
Come on, you can do this . . .