A Steward of Dust

What does “having it all” mean to you? Is it attainable?

Long ago, I heard a story about a young couple. On their first wedding anniversary, he gave her a small sachet tied with a ribbon; inside she could feel small hard things.

She opened it and peanuts fell into her open palm. She looked at him and he said wistfully, “I wish they were gems.”

The years flew by and it was their fiftieth anniversary. They had a life of ups and downs, sorrow and joy, tears and laughter. Their kids were grown and gone; they’d done well and lived in a fine home. 

He gave her another sachet; again, she could feel little hard things. She opened it and into her wrinkled, shaky hand spilled rubies, emeralds and sapphires. She looked at him. He lovingly cupped her familiar face and said wistfully, “I wish they were peanuts.”

Stewardship in the church is one of those things that parishioners groan about inwardly. Oh no, here we go again.

It’s not popular, but running an organization with most of its funding being provided on a voluntary basis means beating the bushes once a year.

There’s usually a sermon around giving and for several Sundays after kickoff, the bulletins are supplemented with attractive brochures with pie charts and tables. Pictures of people doing fun things, going to church, and smiling kids eating their vegetables.

There’s also usually a speech by a member around tithing, the practice of giving 10% as encouraged in Malachi 3:10. At this point, the congregation stares fixedly ahead or at their shoes.

One September, many years ago, I was newly married and an enthused member of my boyhood church. When Pastor Dingle asked for stewardship volunteers, I dropped a card with my name in the collection plate. There was to be a meeting the following weekend.

I was on top of the world. I worked for IBM as an engineer in my home town. I married a beautiful, kind girl. Everywhere I went, I’d run into old friends from high school. Once a month, our family would convene at my parent’s house for a pool party with burgers.

Sue and I were just starting out. I was still driving the car I had in high school and nursed through my time at Florida. It had no A/C because I couldn’t afford to fix it. Sue’s clunker was in even worse shape and our skimpy budget regularly took torpedo hits as this or that broke.

We lived in a small apartment on A1A in Boca Raton, and just across the road was the beach. They had preserved the native flora: Palm trees, Seagrapes, Palmettos, and wild dune grasses surrounded the bathrooms and the boardwalk that led up and over to the beach. 

Our budget allowed for a Friday afternoon ritual. I’d stop on the way home, and get a brick of cheese, some crackers and a bottle of wine. We’d walk across A1A with our cooler and sand chairs and sit and talk as the easterly trade winds gently sighed and the palm fronds rustled. We talked about big things and little; our dreams, our fears, our hopes. Sometimes there’d just be a comfortable silence. When the first stars appeared in the gathering twilight, we headed home.

On Saturday morning, after a light breakfast, Pastor Dingle called the stewardship volunteer meeting to order. 

“Thank you all for helping,” he said. “I can’t tell you how important this work is.”

The bottom line was that while most members had turned in their signed pledge cards, there were maybe 15-20% who had not. Our mission was to each take a list and go pay a friendly visit to these dawdlers.

My toes curled. I had not expected this. I thought we’re going to be looking at budgetary things, giving input on charitable outreach, spitballing ideas for new ministries. I had not expected to be making door-to-door cold sales calls. Ugh. 

I went from one house to another and was greeted with a wide variety of reactions.

My last house was a name I recognized: Dr. Heikkinen, a prominent world-class surgeon. He lived in the most exclusive section of one of the wealthiest communities in the US. I stopped at the guard shack and door opened. A middle-aged guy in a security uniform came out.

“Hi, I’m here to see Dr. Heikkinen.”

“Is he expecting you?” he asked. 

“Uhmm. Not sure.” I gave him my name and the name of our church. He stepped back inside and picked up a phone. For a long minute or two, I could see him talking. He kept looking at me and my junky car as the engine rattled. I got the impression I was not getting the most glowing critique. 

Finally he hung up and pointed. The massive steel gates… like something from a medieval castle… slowly opened.

I parked in the circular driveway of his mansion; in front of the garage was a Lamborghini. I smoothed my hair, which was disheveled from riding around with the windows open, and rang the bell. Somewhere far away, a cavernous Westminster chime sounded.

A voice came out of a speaker above the doorbell. 

“Come in,” I heard.

Dr. Heikkinen’s family was from Finland, and his mansion was decorated in clean, minimalist Scandinavian style. The floors were polished marble and the lighting was subdued. Here and there, a huge piece of artwork hung and the ceilings were arched and vaulted. A massive light fixture dominated the foyer.

I looked around, not seeing anybody. “Back here,” he called.

I walked through three or four rooms before I got to where he sat in the living room.

Dr. Heikkinen sat on a massive couch. He gestured to an equally large chair opposite a coffee table. I sat; I felt instinctively I should keep quiet and let him lead.

“So,” he finally said. “You’re here for my pledge card, are you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. 

“There it is,” he said indicating the coffee table. I picked it up and put it with the others. He looked at me.

“I’ve seen you at Advent since you were a boy,” he said. “You and your family. You’re very lucky.”

“Thank you.”

“Your parents… how long have they been married?”

I thought. “Just over forty years.”

“And you?” he asked.

“A year in April.”

“Ahhh.”

He put a finger to his lips and gazed out the sliding glass doors to the pool. “Forty years,” he murmured. He was lost in thought.

Finally, he turned back to me.

“For me, it would have been 43 this year,” he said. He continued to look at me and I got the feeling he was weighing telling me something.

I was suddenly aware of the yawning gulf between us: His mansion and my little apartment. He at the height of his professional stature, me just beginning. His guidance and opinion sought by peers around the world; me a nameless associate engineer, a cog in a vast machine. 

Finally he made up his mind. “Pay attention to the little things,” he said sadly. “Fight for your marriage. Make every day count. Because it all goes by so fast…and if you get divorced, you’re left with nothing.”

He lapsed back into a brooding silence and this time it was more awkward, this sad man sitting alone in an empty mansion as dusk approached. I cleared my throat.

“Well,” I said, “I better going. I’ll see myself out.”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

Just as I turned the corner down the echoey long hallway, he called. I turned.

“Darryl,” he said and held up a finger. “You remember what I said, yes?”

I took it all in; the wealth, the scale, the expanse of everything. He lacked nothing except one thing: Love.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I will.” 

And I have. For almost 40 years.

Because in the end, I’d rather have peanuts than emeralds.

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