I grew up in a township in one of those corner houses at the end of a chain of attached homes. The entire row was one bachelor hall, later divided into four 2-bedroom homes. We were blessed to have the corner house with a front, side and backyard, a low chicken wire fence, and a swing gate.

Despite having a guard dog, our home was a constant flow of strangers receiving food, clothes, and/or a free place to sleep. We hosted many people. My parents believed in this.

For 8-year-old me, it was an adventure. I loved the people and their stories, so answering the door became my thing. And everyone was eager to share a story with this big-eared, skinny kid.

But things changed after we moved house. Fewer people came to the door and almost stopped visiting after my father passed away.

Years later, a ringing doorbell or knock on the door still brings excitement to my heart. A joyful memory and an eagerness to serve. But as much as I loved answering the door, I grew not to love it on Sundays.

Sunday mornings were for rushing to get to church on time.

So, when my doorbell rang this morning, I was a little less excited and maybe irritable.

I opened the door, and there she was. The bubbliest young woman in her early twenties. Barely clothed on a Cape Town morning. She didn’t notice the cold. She looked excited to see me; I was puzzled. What do I say to her? She isn’t the person who usually shows up at my door.

Older, sober people. People I can chat about family, hopes and dreams with. Life lessons we can share. And I guess, wrongly, people I viewed as having something to exchange with me.

I did not expect this young girl somewhere in her early twenties, glazed eyes and all, at my door.

“Hi. How are you? Are you busy?”

“Hi, I’m good how are you? Not really. How can I help you?”

“Are you busy?” She persisted.

“No, why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t want to keep you from doing what you were doing.”

Lord, have I forgotten? What could be more important than her right now?

“I’m not busy. What’s your name?”

We spent 10 minutes chatting. I don’t remember most of what we spoke about in those minutes. She was so hyperactive and brilliant. Skipping an imaginary line as we talked.

She finally dared to ask me for anything I could spare. I checked what she needed, thinking it was the right thing to do. “What would you do for your daughter? What would you do for her?” she asked.

I was stunned into silence.

“Then do that.”

Instantly, she crawled into my heart.

I am a mother. My son was safely at home. But if this were my child on the street, I would want the person on whose door she knocked to help her as if she was part of their family.

So I scrambled around the house, putting together a backpack for my daughter. I would do that for her.

That’s what Jesus called the woman with the issue of blood.

She was an outcast when she grabbed for her healing. She had been ignored, hidden, and taken advantage of. In her desperate moment, she broke protocol and reached out, touching the hem of Jesus’s garment.

His hem!

His identity, authority, and purity.

And Jesus called her daughter.

The woman with the issue of blood.

He called her daughter.

Jesus identified her with Him, restoring her to family.

It takes a lot to ask for help from strangers and even close relations. When the other person more than meets your needs, it heals something in your heart. It gives you hope again.

But some of us have experienced help that felt unpleasant, transactional, guilt-laden or pity-filled. We can unintentionally give out that same type of help that numbed us.

I guess the daughter at my door was asking, at that moment, for a type of support reserved for those we consider our own. Help that saw past her situation, making her feel included, like a daughter.

She is one of many people struggling right now. There is an overwhelming level of need. Even the most churched feel that sense of I can’t help everyone.

And though we may not always be able to give as we want, we cannot give in to mistrusting those in need. Or accepting the more insidious giving fatigue.

We are stewards.

Even if we have become frustrated by endless needs, non-responsiveness and self-preservation cannot be our options. And though we can’t always give material things, we can give honour to a person.

Awww, friend, give her the new scarf. Give him the jacket you’ve hardly worn or that second bottle of premium shampoo. Give as you’d give to your loved ones.

Buy extras, hoping to bless someone.

What meal would you prepare for the best friends coming over? Then do that. Dish it up in your Tupperware, and be okay with never seeing it again.

Do you have excess but notice your neighbour is struggling? Then share that with them.

Give whatever it is you have to give at that moment.

Do that for the person you see wearing the same clothes every Sunday, the one sheepishly returning some groceries from her basket or the seemingly affluent family that’s pulling their kids out of private school for no apparent reason.

Give as if it is your Mom, Dad, sister, brother, or favourite niece.

Bless them with your excess.

It challenged me. I wasn’t proud of who I had become. Rushing to church when I could linger and serve from home.

Was I loving my neighbour?

I thought I was, but I wasn’t. Somewhere along the line, I started being self-preserving, serving within my comfort, subscribing perhaps to a faulty view of stewardship.

I had forgotten the people, the stories, and my parents’ display of love for their neighbours. They served with their gifts, sharing their blessings directly from our home.

But God brought her right up to my door and brought to mind, “who is your neighbour?”

This daughter of mine is dear to my heart. And I almost selfishly didn’t want to share at the risk of forgetting her. I loved her audacious ask. I loved her for shaking me awake. Above all that, I love her. And although I have never seen her again, I think about her all the time.

I never want to forget her. Because she reminded me again that even when I have little, I can give.

That what I viewed as mine; is ours.

I delayed publishing this piece.

It is upsetting being confronted like this. Even harder to face your shortcomings. Be made aware of self.

When I bring this up, some protest that this only means more to me now. After all, I’ve struggled. I’ve needed a helping hand. So this is my issue, and I should not turn it into everyone’s thing.

I don’t know. 

Maybe they are correct.

The season I was in was tough. It stretched me. It would have been a wasted opportunity if it hadn’t grown me. Softened my heart even more and sharpened my discernment. I submitted, albeit sometimes reluctantly, to God’s correction. His expansion and direction.

God brought me back to the place where it began. Reinforced my identity in Him and reset my foundations. 

I have come to truly know His love.

The experiences made me understand how God’s redemptive love looks and feels. How that kind of love brings about change.

So maybe my plea is the overflow of that.

I used to hear Dad say this verse so many times I thought it was his saying. I never thought about what that felt like or far he meant it.

But I know it now. People gave me their best and asked for nothing in return. 

Those who tirelessly left emails and voice notes of prayer and pure love. I didn’t have to prove I could help myself first. Most I will never meet or ever see again.

Stewardship as part of God’s redemptive act towards humanity. Now there’s a conversation…

I understand now why it mattered to my parents. Why - give expecting nothing in return - is the one verse my Dad said to everyone he met. Everyone. Right to the riot police blocking the entrance to our home.

Why it always matters to God…

So maybe they are correct.

It is my issue.

But it is difficult to imagine that others have not had this burning bush moment. The one that made them go all in for the people God has brought across their paths. 

The “feed them, clothe them” call.

To agitate others for those yet to experience God’s extravagance. For those who don’t yet know God or are struggling to see Him in their hard season.

Or maybe I’m stirred by the few people whose situations have seen them excluded, mocked, or taken advantage of.

Those we don’t see.

God has grown this over the last few years. From a whisper in my heart to a plea penned on a screen. This issue comes up in every conversation I’ve had, from boardrooms to the streets.

It’s everywhere. It draws me into the lives of people who don’t look like they need help. People who don’t look like me, and perhaps people whose world I haven’t always been open to being involved in.

It is not comfortable. As a friend said, you have to get dirty and confront yourself in the process. 

It’s offensive and invites criticism, and there are fewer companions along the way. And it may very well be a midlife existential awareness, as some have suggested.

All I know is that a single thought stirs in my spirit. 

I know God can send someone else and has grace for me as I mature, but surely my freedom carries a charge. No matter how that opportunity presents itself. Whether in my comfort or discomfort.

Lord, may we never miss the opportunity to serve You and give freely to a world desperate to know Your love.

Am I too passionate about it? Yes. As my son says, Mom, you have big feelings.

Is my mandate different from yours? I don’t know.

But if it takes receiving redemptive help from someone I could never repay to recognise, and respond to someone else’s need, then maybe it is my thing.

Oh, my dear Lord, are the hands really this few?

I pray that in the coming months and years, our hearts are tuned to Holy Spirit promptings, expectant to be the answer to a stranger’s need. Not mere lip service but with hands and feet ready to respond in whatever way God asks us to.

That God may be glorified through our actions.