Be a gift to everyone who enters your life, and to everyone whose life you enter.
~Neale Donald Walsch
I was twenty-nine, single, and had never lived on my own. Right after college, I’d moved into a house off campus with a dozen of my closest friends. The rent was cheap, and there were other advantages, like learning how to cook a three-course dinner for twenty people in less than two hours, or how to agree on a paint color for the kitchen when everyone had a different opinion.
But there were drawbacks. I was working as a freelance writer, and it was difficult to get work done with all the noise that living with so many people entails. Plus, I’m an introvert. Other single people fantasize about coming home to a partner and a warm meal. I fantasized about coming home to an empty house.
I looked at my financials and realized I could move out on my own if I wanted to. I was making just enough to cover rent on a one-bedroom apartment, plus other monthly expenses. Hopefully, the added quiet would help me write — and earn — more.
But I’d have to do without much furniture for a while. The only pieces I had to my name were those that fit in my bedroom — a bed, desk, chair, and dresser — and I couldn’t blow a lot of money on stuff for the apartment up front. Most of my reserves were going to the security deposit and basics like knives and forks.
That was fine, I told myself. I’d just have to set aside a little each month and furnish the place as I went. Packing crates could do double-duty as a kitchen table until I saved up enough to buy one. I just wouldn’t be able to invite anyone over for dinner, unless they were okay with sitting on the floor.
“Wait,” a friend said to me one Sunday after church. “You’re a writer, and you don’t own a bookshelf?”
I shook my head. The bedroom I’d had for the past few years had a built-in. All the books I’d kept on those shelves would have to stay in their moving boxes for a while.
My friend’s eyes lit up like a bulb had just turned on in her head. “You know, I have an old one I’m not really using. It’s yours if you want it. And I bet other people have stuff they could give if you asked. You could post something to the church e-mail list.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Too proud to ask for help?” she said with a knowing smile. “I have that problem, too.”
I laughed. I sent an e-mail out a couple days later, but didn’t expect much response.
The next Sunday after church, a longtime member named Sandy tapped me on the shoulder. “Can you come to the fellowship hall for a minute? I need help with something.”
I said “yes” without giving it much thought. A potluck was scheduled for that week. I assumed she wanted help setting up chairs.
“I saw your e-mail about moving,” Sandy said as we walked toward the hall. “Do you still need stuff for your apartment?”
“Not really,” I said, trying to be stoic about it. I thought I should be more like the lilies of the field I’d taught my Sunday school kids about — the ones that don’t worry about clothing or shelter, but do just fine anyway. “I have the furniture I need to sleep and do work. That’s the most important thing.”
“Do you at least have stuff so you can cook?” she said.
I blushed. “Not yet. I guess I’ll have to do a little shopping once I move.”
“Or not.” She smiled mischievously as she pushed on the fellowship hall’s door.
“Surprise!” Several dozen voices shouted in unison as the door swung open. I looked at Sandy in confusion. Apparently, there was a surprise party being thrown for her that I’d forgotten about.
But then I got a closer look at the room. Two of the long tables usually reserved for potlucks were piled neatly with assorted necessities of apartment living: toasters and dish racks, towels and sink scrubbers still in the package, pots and pans, brand-new shower curtains and measuring spoons. Next to the tables sat various pieces of furniture: a table, rocking chair, TV stand, kitchen stools, and more.
“Happy apartment-warming!” someone said, stepping out of the crowd. “It’s all for you.”
I turned to Sandy in shock. “I can’t take all of this.”
“You don’t have to. Just decide what you want, and we’ll set it aside for someone to bring over the day you move in. Anything you don’t want, we’ll give to other folks who need it. Enjoy your shopping!”
A kid I’d taught in Sunday school ran over with an empty Macy’s bag. “Go on. Fill ’er up!” Then he led me over to the table and pointed out a rubber duckie he’d asked his mom to buy for me.
I smiled so wide that the muscles around my ears started to hurt. I couldn’t believe that people would have gone to all this effort just for me. As much as I’d shrugged it off, the prospect of furnishing an apartment from scratch had been daunting. I’d lost sleep worrying about the finances of it as well as the logistics. It was such a relief not to have to worry about it anymore.
And I felt incredibly loved. I might be moving out on my own, but I still had a community of people I could rely on.
“I can’t believe you guys would do all this for me,” I said to one of the men who had helped haul in the furniture.
“I just carried furniture,” he said. “It was really Sandy’s idea.”
I was perplexed. I had known Sandy for a while and I liked her, but we’d never been very close. We were from different generations, and our social circles didn’t really overlap. We mostly just said hello to each other at church. It touched me that she would go to such lengths for someone she barely knew.
I found Sandy and gave her a hug. “I keep trying to thank people, but they say it was all you.”
Sandy shrugged it off. “Oh, all I did was shoot off a few e-mails.” She explained that she’d been at home that week recovering from the flu, and she’d started to go stir-crazy with boredom. When she saw my e-mail, she decided to pass the time by organizing the surprise apartment warming for me. “I could be sick and still feel productive,” she said. “So really, it’s your gift to me.”
That apartment became a sanctuary to me. Even though I lived alone, I never felt alone. The friendship of others was always present in tangible ways, from the rubber duckie in my shower to the toaster oven where I heated my dinner.
But maybe the more important gift was the wisdom Sandy had shared with me: Sometimes, the best way to help yourself is to make life a little easier for someone else.
~Kathryn Kingsbury
