When you find someone made a mistake, which would you choose, being right or being nice?

At ages five and eight, Bobby and I would spend our usual Saturday with Grandpa, cleaning his house.

Grandpa was only in his late fifties. His own dad had died early, so he didn’t go to school but ran the family farm to raise his family. Because of that, his skills consisted of being able to sign his name, read his grandchildren’s names, and do simple sums in his head.

Then I didn’t understand the poverty and limited opportunities Grandpa lived with. A little food was the only items in his small refrigerator. He worked as a night guard for several companies, and the highlight of his week was the reward he gave my brother and me for cleaning.

After we were done, Grandpa would put on his only suit, and we’d head to town. As we walked, Grandpa would greet every person he met along the way. Everyone had a story to share, and Grandpa would stand quietly, always smiling, and listen with great appreciation.

When we’d finally arrive at Grandpa’s favorite diner, the waitresses would all greet him as a long-lost elder. Bobby and I split an adult plate, and Grandpa either had a cup of soup or a cup of coffee, talking about how well we cleaned his place, telling anyone who would listen every step of every task we accomplished. Every waitress would make sure they came up to say “hi” to Grandpa and congratulate his grandkids on their work. It may have been a diner, but it was our another home.

When dinner was over, the waitress would bring the check and slide it over to Grandpa. One day it was Gloria, and like always she bent close to him and told him the amount of the check (knowing that he couldn’t read the paper).

Grandpa carefully dug into the pocket and brought out a broken coin purse. He carefully laid out the bills and coins. Then he gave Gloria a very very small tip. I was ashamed that he had got it wrong and that he—we—would be embarrassed.

I was about to say something to Grandpa when Gloria grabbed my hand.

The words “being nice” played over and over in my mind.

A Son’s Love

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.

Anxious, I asked him repeatedly to tell me where the money had gone.

Finally, in tears, and with great reluctance, my son told us the truth.

As I stepped out of the cat and onto the unfamiliar driveway of my father’s home in Ontario, Canada. I couldn’t help but feel upset. My mother had just passed away in a car accident and now I was being forced to live with a father I barely knew.

My father was a metal sculpture artist, and I was not sure if I would ever fit into his world. Soon, I found comfort in exploring the nearby wilderness. Yet I couldn’t ignore the sadness and anger that welled up inside me when I saw a construction crew destroying a small wilderness area nearby. That’s when I came across a nest of geese eggs, abandoned and fragile.   

Without hesitation, I brought them home. When the first crack appeared and a tiny head poked through, my heart swelled with purpose and affection. As they grew, the baby geese followed me everywhere. Father smiled and remarked that they surely thought me their mother.     

My geese grew steadily but time was not. Father realized without a real mother’s guidance, the geese would never learn how to migrate south for the winter and winter’s arrival could be tough. That’s when my father came up with a daring plan. He was an amateur pilot, and he would teach me how to fly an aircraft. Together, we would lead the geese on their migratory journey. It was a risky plan, but I was willing to do anything to help my feathered friends.

Each day of flight training with Father, I felt myself gaining confidence m the skies. Yet with the journey approaching, more and more fear filled me. Crossing the border into the US and flying hundreds of miles to the reservation in North Carolina seemed a mission impossible.

Father gave me a supportive smile, his face reflecting a mix of determination and concern. “We’ve trained for this, and we’re a team. Just like you and your geese,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

Flying south, we started the migration, followed by my geese.

I said goodbye to Father in the hospital and continued the flight.