When I was eight years old, I learned in Sunday school that Christians are called to give alms to the poor. I did not yet grasp the theology of charity, but I took the command seriously. After class, I went home, grabbed a plastic sandwich bag from the kitchen drawer, and set off down my neighborhood street asking strangers for “alms for the poor.”
I told each person that I was collecting for our parish priest so he could give the money to those in need. By the time I got back, I had raised about eight dollars and attracted the attention of the local police. Someone had called, concerned about a little boy wandering door to door asking for money. My father was horrified. I had to give the donations back, but no one wanted their money returned. In the end, I walked up to our priest and handed him that bag of crumpled bills and coins. For a child, it felt like a small miracle, a simple act of love that the world did not quite know how to handle.
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