The Gift

Muddy ruts of footprints had frozen up and had snow in a few spots. Loads of sticks for the wood-burning stoves were being transported on bicycles. The clothes hung to dry were as stiff as cardboard. We wound our way through this Roma village near sundown before the worship service would start. It was cold, but inside each of these mud-plastered houses was warm. The village is known as Gat (pronounced “Gaht”), and the Roma (gypsy) people who live here speak Hungarian.

I was ushered into a house at one point. My camera fogged up immediately as it was transferred from the cold, dry outside air to the warm, humid air inside this two room house/workshop. I was introduced to a Roma basket-weaver who was in the middle of production, and I couldn’t even take a picture, but had to wait several minutes for the condensation to clear away.

His hands were scarred and calloused from the manual labor, but his face was kind yet focused on his work. His pot of freshly boiled twigs sat beside him as he pulled them out one-by-one to strip the bark by using a larger slotted stick. The bark dropped to the floor and the white, bare twigs emerged as easily as a banana from its peel.

He informed us that he could produce a basket in about one hour. The sturdy examples sat behind him and we were told that the price per basket was 40 Ukrainian Griven (UAH) which is about $5. He and is wife were welcoming in their modest accommodations.

We departed there to attend the church service being held at the house just next door. The cold blast was but a few seconds as we exited one house and entered the other. More than 20 Roma crammed into this small house. Hungarian songs were sung, and a Hungarian Bible lesson was well received.  I understood no words, but felt a spirit of true worship.

Under the instruction of my wife (at home in Kiev, Ukraine), I needed to return to purchase one of these baskets.  I didn’t know how I would get it back in one piece, but arranged a return trip to his house.  Once again, we were welcomed warmly.

The basket-weaver told me to choose one of the baskets. They all looked similar. I asked for his opinion, and he pointed out one he seemed especially proud of. As I took the basket, I started to hand him 50 UAH (instead of the quoted price of 40), but he would not accept it. My host and I were startled as everyone in the room indicated that the basket was “paid for.” By whom? When? Questions swirled in my mind at the thought of a gift from someone who worked so hard to create a $5 basket. Here I was, awed by the generosity of someone who didn’t appear as someone who could afford to be generous. I continued to try to pass the money to no avail. The basket was a “gift.”

I was reminded of so many different stories from the Bible, but mostly was reminded of the best “gift” I had ever been given. One with carpenter’s hands gave it to me. It appeared to cost him everything, even though He did not even have a place He called home (on this earth). My ugly bark of sin had been stripped away to reveal the clean, white righteousness that He gave me. He works on weaving me into a sturdy, useful, ornate, being that he created me to be. And he promises me a home beyond my imagination.

Remember, you don’t pay for a gift, the Giver does.

Posted by Michael Clifton on Feb 4, 2010

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