The Price of Hope

It wasn’t the tears glistening on the surface of the woman’s eyes that moved me. It was the deep pools of emotion rippling below that caught my heart. Tired. Scared. Angry. Embarrassed. Incredulous to find herself in this position. Yet desperate enough not to let anything stand in her way. 

She followed me into my neighborhood last night and pulled her car in behind me in the driveway. Rolling down her window, she called to me. I could see her steeling her courage; prepared for me to brush her off. But I couldn’t ignore the quiet command of her voice; couldn’t bear the all-too-familiar look of desperation that only means one thing: a child is in trouble.

“Ma’am,” she resolutely began, “I’m your neighbor. I live just a block away. My daughter had an asthma attack and needs medicine. I need $7.64 to pay for it. I get paid tomorrow and I’ll pay you back right away – I’ll even give you my driver’s license number if you want – but please lend me the money. I’ve got to find a way to get her the medicine.”

With that, the tears that had been brimming on the surface finally spilled over. She fought to regain her composure, trying to patch the cracks in the crumbling levy that kept the emotions of her soul in check.

In that instant, I remembered a dark night in my own soul. I was taken back to a hospital corridor, hearing the voice of a doctor telling me my daughter was in serious trouble, needing extensive surgery to have even a slim hope of surviving. I knew the desperation this woman was feeling; knew that a mother will walk through hell – let alone follow a stranger to their home – to give her child a chance at life and health.

The memory faded and I focused again on this woman and her child. This daughter didn’t need surgery – didn’t need weeks in ICU and months of rehab at home. She just needed someone to give her mom $7.64 so she could breathe again.

I pulled some money from my purse and handed it to this mother. I told her she didn’t need to repay it; that’s what neighbors are for. And I prayed silently that God would grant her and her child peace and provision.

I stood for a moment and watched her drive away. My heart was heavy as I saw her heading back to her life – one that can collapse under the tiniest weight of just $7.64.

I didn’t feel conned or manipulated by her. I felt helpless. This woman, and millions more like her, lives on the edge. Day-to-day. Paycheck-to-paycheck. No margin, no mercy. This clean-cut, hard-working woman wasn’t looking for a handout – just a hand up and out of the despair of not being able to get her daughter medicine to prevent an asthma attack.

We live in the wealthiest nation on earth and yet we are poor in so many ways. Tens of millions are un- or underinsured. I looked into the eyes of one of them last night.

Poverty makes no distinction between adults and children. The woman who stopped me last night was the voice of need, but her child is easily its face. And in our country, there are so many, many faces like the one of the little girl whose big eyes gazed silently at me.

I’m not sure how to make it okay for millions of people. But last night I attempted to make it okay for one mom trying to help her daughter. It’s a start. Even if it’s just $7.64 worth of hope, it’s a start.