When I was seven, I went to the local pool each summer day. There was a pair of twin girls that I very much wanted to like me, named Jean and Paula. I concocted a plan to bring them gifts, and since I was pilfering toys from my own bedroom, I tried to hide it from my mother. Being a mom she of course figured it out and explained to me that you can't buy love, though that song had not been written yet. 

 

Being less astute than my mother, it has taken me a few weeks to realize that Benjamin has his own intentions. There are children that he sees at church, having first met them as sewing students. He has leaned into his own resources and prepares candy bags to hand them on the sly. 

 

But in contrast to my own motives, as much as I can recall them sixty years later, Benjamin expects nothing in return. Which leaves me speechless. I was hoping to get a reward for my kindness, which can hardly be called kindness, when it was really a bribe. But Benjamin's altruism seems unalloyed by such things. 

 

He is, I admit, hindered by infrequent trips to Trader Joe's. His own resourcefulness kicks in when perfectly good cookies are lying around at church. 

 

But for those of us who seek to spread less edible manifestations of love, the supply is inexhaustible.