A Son’s Love

A Son’s Love

From Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul

A Son’s Love

Where love is, there is God also.

Leo Tolstoy

Our church congregation in Toronto has a way of assisting those who have financial difficulties without making the recipient feel shame or guilt. Money is dropped into an offering box with only the name of the recipient on the envelope. The envelopes are then distributed to those members without them knowing the name of the giver.

There came a time when my husband and I were among those in need. We did not talk about our financial difficulty with anyone. The only reason our children knew was because we had to cut back on many things. Still, we hoped they were not aware of the extent of our need, nor of how much their father and I were suffering because of it. We did not want to burden them with a problem they could do nothing to solve.

Our situation wasn’t improving, and my husband and I knew that we would have to look for outside help. Just as we reached the point of despair, our church gave us a gift envelope that had been left in the offering box. We were overjoyed to receive a very substantial amount of money, enough to bring us through that desperate time. We couldn’t help but wonder who had given such a generous gift. We were extremely relieved and enormously grateful.

A year later, our seventeen-year-old son was applying for a student loan so he could attend university. It was then we discovered that his savings account was almost empty. His father and I were very disturbed by this. We had trusted him to put part of his wages from his part-time job into the bank towards his education. From the time he was nine years old he had been a paper carrier for The Toronto Star, and he had worked very hard for his small earnings. I asked him repeatedly to tell me where the money had gone. At first he would not tell me, which made me even angrier. I would not let the matter alone. I kept hounding him, determined to find out where the money had gone.

Finally, in tears, and with great reluctance, my son admitted that the year before he had put his savings in the offering box for his father and me. I stood there speechless, tears filling my eyes. It had taken my son years to save that money. He had given it to us willingly—without telling us what he had done.

J. E. Bailey
Toronto, Ontario

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