Tribute rather than Charity
Dec 16, 2015

http://www.usccb.org/bible/readings/121715.cfm

In the lineage from Matthew, in the first 17 verses of that gospel, we hear about Judah, the son of Jacob. Jacob is the third generation from Abraham. Jacob, also called “Israel,” spoke to each of his 12 sons, one at a time upon his deathbed, listing them and their affinities, affectations and prospects for the future. Reuben was the firstborn, and though highly ranked and powerful, Jacob called him turbulent and a disappointment. Simeon and Levi were next. They didn’t fare much better than Reuben, convicted as violent and cruel. Jacob cursed them. And next, there was Judah. Judah was described in Jacob’s Genesis litany of his sons as a lion, who lived upon prey, eating what he caught in the wilderness. Judah would become the standout of the lot. In fact, Judah would eventually command “tribute” from his brothers. Jacob spoke bluntly of each remaining son, condemning some, heralding others, and then blessed them all, rolled over in his bedding, and died.  

A tribute is defined as a gift, given as “due” or expected payment to acknowledge either gratitude or esteem.

I’ve delivered firewood to a couple of folks who live like lions in the mountain land, the wilderness surrounding Woodland Park. One memorable delivery, to a woman whom I do not want to name, seemed to live such a hard scrabble life. She lived on prey. Her electricity came across a string of cockeyed posts from a neighbor’s house, who apparently supplied her power from his own panel. Her home consisted of three quarters trailer, one quarter plastic sheeting, and a ramp made out of wooden pallets covered with carpeted plywood.

She walked with a list on one side and a limp on the other, holding onto a 2x4 railing precariously attached to the side of the pallets that shifted every which way when she put her weight upon them. I waited for her to get down to my truck, because at first I thought she was waving for me to hold up before I unloaded her ¼ cord of wood, split by some dozen or more volunteers from Church. She wasn’t waving, though; just balancing herself while she made her way across her entry way, her right hand grasping at the railing, and her left holding a length of a scarf in the air, like a tight rope walker maintaining sureness of foot.

She chatted when I dropped the wood for her, right beside the door to her trailer, so it would be easy for her to bring in the split pieces. I brought my grandsons with me that day, and they watched from the inside of the truck, and listened to her talk to me, telling me stories about her health, her one-eyed horse, and her sons and a daughter, I think, who stopped by every other week to check on her.

Pete Tysdal, who knows each and every soul who gets a wood delivery, helped me load my truck, picking out chunks of aspen and small cuts of pine, explaining to me that this woman had only a small stove, so we had to make sure the pieces were the right size.

I took my time unloading her firewood, mostly because I couldn’t toss the spilts through the air into a pile, like I normally did, for fear one might bounce into the transparent sheeting and tear a hole into her living room wall. My grandsons watched wide-eyed, glancing periodically at the old horse, which the woman described as an Irish breed, a Connemara pony. She fed the pony proper food, which cost her dearly, she said. She lived on the harvest of animals from the 40 or so acres of property which she told me she owned. Friends brought her deer meat, which she said were most likely hit by cars, but “beggars can’t be choosers.”

We often think of bringing stuff to people like this woman as a gift of charity, but today, reading what Jacob said about Judah, I think it’s a different act. I think bringing electricity, deer meat and firewood is an offering of tribute. Even though this old, rather broken down woman owned the land where her trailer sat, she lived entirely on the tributes from those who visited her.

Even her own children brought her tributes every week or so. She had the shell of a Subaru on her property, which one of her children brought her. Her son had been working on the vehicle for over a year, bringing one part or the other, eventually assembling a fully functioning car. That’s how the woman described it, anyway. It had no wheels, which she said were coming soon.

She told me she didn’t drive anymore, but she was tickled that her son wanted to help. I couldn’t tell you what was true about that rusty Subaru, hoisted up on varying blocks of concrete and stumps. But she was proud of what it meant. She pulled a long, large carrot out of her sweater, complete with it’s leaves, which was a magical site in itself, and hung it over the fence that separated the horse in the 40-acre field, standing 10 yards away from the road that led to her trailer, while she talked about the Subaru. She didn’t whistle or click her tongue, just held out that carrot. By the time she finished telling about the new set of wheels, which would show up any week now, the horse hand wandered left and right toward the fence and finally discovered what she smelled, and began gnawing on the carrot. She was an ancient beast, but at the first bite her tail flipped, traces of her halcyon years.

The two of them were a sight, but me arriving with hand delivered wood, two left turns from the end of the mapped roads on my GPS headings, surely had to be a tribute, don’t you think? The woman and her horse would be taken care of by God, if by no one else. Piles of Subaru like stories graced the space around her home. She told me about the prospects of a windmill that would soon arise out of a jumble of aluminum pieces to her left, and how the smoke wafting from her Pizza-leaning stack, barely 3 foot above the trailer roof, reminded her of her husband’s pipe. She smiled at his memory. His death had scattered the family, but she said they always returned to pay homage, and bring something she sorely needed, like a working Subaru and a windmill. She was surrounded by gifts of tribute.

Unlike Jacob, the mountain woman had nothing bad to say about her family. She complained only about the cancers and coughs, and shingles and sore legs, but still managed to see travel in her future and capturing power from the air.

In her shall all the tribes of the earth be blessed, and all the nations shall proclaim her happiness.