The Least I Can Do

I have been struck lately by the way interviews on radio and TV end. Someone important has been invited to participate in a conversation on an important issue. When the segment ends, the host says what I expect him or her to say to the guest: “Thank you!” The guest’s response used to surprise me. For he or she—the person who has contributed expertise to the conversation—almost always responded with “Thank you,” rather than “you’re welcome,” which is what I expect him or her to say. That conversational interaction just seemed like the obvious, appropriate gesture to end a discussion. The one who offered insight or advice should not have had to think about how to respond to “Thank you.” It is always “You’re welcome.” 

When my expectations were thwarted over and over, I began to speculate on what that “Thank you” in response to a preceding “Thank you” might mean. Was the guest acknowledging that he felt honored to have been asked to speak on such a prestigious platform? Was she so nervous about appearing on tv or radio that she just forgot what the appropriate conventional response to “thank you” should be? 

Then one day it dawned on me that my own response to someone thanking me was almost never to respond the way I had been taught as a child: “You’re welcome.” Instead, I say “It was the least I could do.”  When I first reflected on that response, I felt good about it. It sounded humble (something like the Spanish “de nada” in response to “gracias”: “It was nothing.”).

But the more I thought about that response, the more uncomfortable I became. I have friends who are extremely needy. As I have been taught to do as a Christian, I help them regularly. Good for them; good for me. But then I noticed that the help I offered was almost always… the least I could do. My friend who is in the final devastating stages of ALS and his wife need all sorts of help: He needs to be lifted in and out of bed (and at this stage he is dead weight). She needs someone to be with him alone for a few hours while she runs a necessary errand or just gets some time to herself. They need people to help with housework. They need people to pick them up and drive them to and from doctors’ appointments. They need someone to prepare meals for them, deliver them, possibly stay and eat with them, bringing the outside world into the narrowed world into which his disease has placed them.

I am a good cook, and I enjoy cooking. So the other day, out of the long list of things that needed to be done for my friends, I chose to prepare them a delicious pot of beef-barley soup, whip up a tasty spinach-strawberry-pecan-parmesan salad and purchase a lovely crusty loaf of bread from our town’s best bakery. What I did cost me something. The soup takes quite a long time to cook. The bakery I chose is pretty far from my house and is in a neighborhood where parking is a real pain. My friends live twenty minutes outside Chattanooga. So it took up most of my afternoon to prepare the meal and drive it to their house. My offering meant the wife did not have to think about dinner. She would have an extra hour or two to rest or to sit with her husband and enjoy the beautiful view from their house. They would have a tasty nutritious meal, rather than a frozen dinner pulled from the microwave. 

To reemphasize: It was something. I could have justified my actions by reminding myself that I could have done nothing. I should have felt good about myself because I put myself out for this brother and sister in Christ? But when I arrived at their house and was invited to eat with them, I declined. I had plans to meet with other friends. They understood. They were truly grateful for what I had done. “Thank you so much!” they both said as I headed toward my car. “It was the least I could do,” I replied, speaking more truly than either of them would ever know. 

Another example happened last night at our prayer group. We had a representative from Safe Families make a brief presentation about ways they provide “respite” for single parents, everything from a form of foster care to taking kids for a day or two to give their parent relief to simply acting as a sympathetic ear for an hour or two to allow parents to vent about the difficulties of parenting alone. This coincided with a major effort by local and state governments to recruit “grandparents” to foster teenagers (the most difficult children to find homes for). I will admit that the tv commercials, with their heartwarming success stories, have made me consider that as something for my wife and me to do in our golden years. We have a big empty home; both of us are in good health for our age; both of us are retired; both of us were educators. We would probably be ideal candidates for taking a teenager under our wings. 

But I must admit that I felt relieved while the representative of Safe Families described the less demanding things that people like me could do to help families in tight situations. They are things I could easily do that would help, things that will fit easily into my schedule of retiree activities. I took one of her brochures and planned to volunteer as one of the supportive listeners, what sounds like “the least” demanding of all the ways to help these needy folks.

After our prayer group ended, while I lay in bed unable to sleep, I reminded myself that Jesus commended people who did little things, things that others probably considered insignificant. Like the widow who put her penny in the offering at The Temple. Like the little boy who offered five small loaves and two small fishes to Jesus. I reminded myself of Matthew 10:42 where Jesus says “And whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones because he is my disciple, truly I tell you he will never lose his reward.” I felt pretty good about myself for doing Some Thing, rather than nothing.

But then truth broke in. I thought of the rest of the story of “the widow’s mite”: The widow’s gift was, from one perspective, nothing compared to the bag of money the pharisee ostentatiously dropped into the poor box. But what mattered to Jesus was that it was the most she had to offer, while his gift probably cost him nothing. It was “the least he could do.” And I will admit that I that I was rebuked; I felt more like the condemned pharisee than the widow whom Jesus praised. It made me wonder if this moment of reflection will change the way I offer service to Jesus and his people.