Paying Forward
A Story about Giving
“They show you your value,” Sophie declared in a startlingly unsympathetic tone. “I did warn you.”
Well, yes, she had. Many times, over many years. We had labelled her cynical. Uncharitable. Selfish, even. You see, Sophie never gave freely of herself. Not to anyone and not for any cause. She professed to be a strong supporter of several worthy causes, but when they asked her to sing at their fund-raising functions, she quoted her standard commercial charge rate. Same rate she charged the local hoteliers, the RSL Club manager, and the wedding planners.
We, on the other hand, were givers. And Tom had put his heart and soul into giving on this occasion. He had spent countless hours practicing to ensure his performance at the upcoming charity function was note-perfect in every way.
We joked that musicians are the only professionals in the world who will spend $50,000 on a reliable car and $10,000 on an instrument, thousands on music, hundreds to travel to a gig … and come home with $50 payment for six hours entertaining patrons so a venue can attract big spenders and make huge profits. But most of Tom’s gigs were for charity, and he loved playing. And we both believed in ‘paying it forward’. Or that’s what we thought we were doing.
“Most people lack the emotional intelligence to understand value,” Sophie said. “What you need to understand is that their comprehension is limited to associating the price on the tag to the value of the item … the fee stated on the invoice to the value of the service. They simply don’t get that value and price are often completely unrelated, let alone that something given can actually be of high worth. Gratitude, for them, means smiling and saying ‘thank you’ until they have drained you of all that you have to give, or taken all that they want … and then they turn away.”
We shook our heads in despair. She would never understand. There is such pleasure in giving. There is so much satisfaction in helping. How could you not choose to be a giver and a helper?
“They show you your value,” she said again. “Perhaps I’ve been shown mine once too often.”
We struggled to believe Sophie had ever exposed herself to users. She was too coarse, too self-assured, too constant and unbending in her stance.
And then it had happened. Hundreds of hours of private practice. Countless long drives to a rehearsal hall to practice with the group. Multiple sacrifices of personal leisure and family together time. But the virtuoso had returned from abroad. He rarely ever played in a gig. His price was far too high for our humble group of givers, who mostly played at old age homes. But he felt inclined to play at this one. There were some in the audience he wanted to impress. So the stalwart, Tom, was asked to stand down and let the doyen take his place. Just for one night. Yes! Just for the one event Tom had practiced so hard for and looked forward to for so long. Of course, they wanted him back the following week for the concert at the old age home. They were keenly aware of his value.
“Thank you for showing me my worth,” Tom said, as he tendered his resignation.
He was lost for a time. The black dog, predictably, bit hard. His life seemed empty, and he simmered with rage at the unfairness and the ingratitude. And all Sophie said was, “I told you they would show you your value.” And I didn’t help, because I was compelled, for once, to concede she was right.
That was his turning point. It ought to have also been mine, but I kept on. The voice in my head said she was right and I should change the numbers on the price tag to properly reflect my assessment of my worth, but my heart just wouldn’t listen. My friends were different. Better than his. Better than hers. Grateful. Generous. Caring. Real friends.
It was nearly two years on before I reached the same crossroads. I have lost contact with Sophie. We moved towns, and she moved on. Were she here today, I know what she would say. And she’d be right. She was always right.
“They show you your worth.”
They showed me mine.
The black dog bit hard. I was rather vulnerable at the time, anyway, for other reasons. The blow could not have been more ill-timed. But like him, I’ll bounce back … eventually. I’ll find new friends and new ways to give.
See, givers never change. They may learn the lesson Sophie tried so hard to teach us, but they accept it in their heads; never in their hearts. Dumb? Probably. We invite hurt. We beg for those terrible depth-of-despair days when we feel worthless and rejected. But we want to believe that somewhere, sometimes, we really do ‘pay it forward’. We will probably never know, for sure, which of those we give to truly understand value, and appreciate the gift. But does it matter? Surely some do?
I once heard my mother ask a man how she could ever repay him for a large and generous gift that, in hindsight, might have saved both our lives, and that of my then infant half-sister. Simeon was an escapee from a prison camp in Germany. He’d been helped to escape to freedom in America, where he’d built a wonderful life. He turned to me in response to my mother’s question, and he explained the concept of paying it forward. He said he didn’t know his rescuers, and there was no chance of ever encountering them again, but he was repaying them daily, and he would continue to repay them every day of his life. He asked me to commit to repaying him for the rest of my days. I did.
I never saw or heard from Simeon again. He was likely laid under a slab of concrete decades ago, but I’ve kept my promise. The turning point was only in my head. It will never reach my heart.
Be Open Says;
Everyone can contribute to this Open Poem!
