setup: [E-Mail Ministry] How Poor or Rich Are We?

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HOW POOR OR RICH ARE WE?

During the waning years of the depression in a small south eastern Idaho
community, I used to stop by Brother Miller's roadside stand for farm-fresh
produce as the season made it available. Food and money were still extremely
scarce, and bartering was used extensively.

One particular day, Brother Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I
noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean,
hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas. I paid for my
potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a
pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't
help overhearing the conversation between Brother Miller and the ragged boy
next to me.

"Hello Barry, how are you today?"

"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas......sure look
good."

"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"

"Fine. Gittin' stronger all the time."

"Good. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."

"Would you like to take some home?"

"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."

"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"

"All I got's my prize marble here."

"Is that right? Let me see it."

"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."

"I can see that. Hmmmm, only thing is this one is blue, and I sort of go for
red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"

"Not 'zackley .....but, almost."

"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you, and next trip this way
let me look at that red marble."

"Sure will. Thanks, Mr. Miller."

Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a
smile she said: "There are two other boys like him in our community; all
three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them
for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red
marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he
sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one,
perhaps."

I left the stand, smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time
later I moved to Utah, but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys,
and their bartering.

Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently
I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I
was there learned that Brother Miller had died. They were having his viewing
that evening and, knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany
them. Upon our arrival at the mortuary, we fell into line to meet the
relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.

Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform, and
the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits, and white shirts...very
professional looking. They approached Mrs. Miller, standing, smiling and
composed, by her husband's casket.

Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly
with her, and moved on to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed
them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm
hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary,
awkwardly wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the
story she had told me about the marbles. Eyes glistening, she took my hand
and led me to the casket. "Those three young men that just left were the
boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim
"traded" them.

Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size...they
came to pay their debt. We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this
world," she confided, "but, right now, Jim would consider himself the
richest man in Idaho." With loving gentleness, she lifted the lifeless
fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three,
magnificently shiny, red marbles.

-- Author Unknown

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