This is a season of giving. My heart expands and contracts with fits of generosity or stinginess. One day I ignore a plea for donating to the victims of tornados, and the next I spontaneously offer a gift for a friend's daughter's birthday. 

 

Often at the office sweet edibles arrive on everyone's desk, as coworkers bestow Christmas blessings to each other. One man blanches almonds, and has done so for many years. Another man makes cookies, tucked in colorful bags. Some years there are many mouths at home, and I am left with the choice to consume the treats privately, or bring them to divvy with everyone.

 

I can recall moments of decision. If I popped the truffle in my mouth it would last for a minute of deliciousness before dissipating. If I gave it away, the sweetness could potentially last much longer.

 

There is a basket in my home that once carried fruit, brought to us after my third daughter was born. I always think of the giver when I see it, these thirty years later. As sweet as the apples and oranges were, those two reservoirs of joy are exponentially different. 

 

The book Human Kind by Brad Aronson describes such an expansion. When a man who later became the mayor of Philadelphia was twelve years old a homeless man knocked on the door asking for food. His mother immediately invited him in for dinner. The boy was at first resistant to sharing, since there were many mouths. But gradually his heart softened, and he gave the man the coins he had been saving under his bed. He went on to establish meaningful programs for countless unhomed people. 

 

The same book tells the story of Howard Lutnick. His father was killed during Howard's first week at Haverford, and since his mother had died two years before he was an orphan. The college president called Howard to say he was on full scholarship. That gesture of generosity impacted the student's life trajectory, and he went to to embody compassion in his business to an unprecedented degree. Included is his altruism was becoming the largest donor in the history if Haverford. 

 

A friend mentioned the transformation that can happen with an old chair. The one in van Gogh's home was worth a few bucks. But the artist took up the brush, and the painting of it that hangs in a museum today is worth twenty million dollars. 

 

Is it possible that an unselfish gesture can attain a kind of immortality? I can feel the warmth of words spoken half a lifetime ago.