Hey there, friend. I’m glad you’re here with me tonight. Let’s sit together for a while, just you and me, and I want to share a story with you—a story that’s been with me for a long time, one that feels like a quiet whisper in the heart. It’s about giving, about what it really means to offer something of yourself. I heard this tale years ago, and it’s stayed with me, like an old friend who shows up when I need a reminder about what matters. So, let’s walk through it together, step by step, as if we’re there, in that ancient city of Rajagriha, under the warm sun of Magadha, where Gautama Buddha once sat among his people.
Imagine this with me. It’s a day heavy with anticipation. Word has spread like wildfire through the streets—Buddha is leaving soon, departing from Rajagriha after days of teaching and wandering. The air buzzes with voices, with the shuffle of feet, as people gather to see him one last time. I can almost feel the dust underfoot, the murmur of the crowd, the weight of their longing to be near him. He’s sitting there, calm as still water, surrounded by his disciples, accepting the offerings of those who’ve come. And oh, the offerings—they’re something to behold. Emperor Bimbisara himself steps forward, presenting land, food, clothing, even vehicles for the monks. Wealthy merchants follow, laying down gold, grains, shimmering ornaments at his feet. It’s a river of abundance, a display of devotion. And Buddha, he just raises his right hand, a gentle gesture of acceptance, his face serene, unmoved by the glitter of it all.
But the crowd—it’s not just kings and merchants. There are ordinary folks too, pressing in, eager to catch a glimpse of him. And among them, there’s this old woman. I can see her so clearly in my mind’s eye—her back bent with age, her hands rough from a life of toil, her clothes worn thin. She’s standing there, clutching something small in her weathered palms, and there’s this quiet determination in her eyes. She steps forward, hesitant at first, her voice trembling as she speaks. “Bhagavan,” she says, “I’m poor. I have nothing to give you, nothing like these others. But today, as I was walking, I found a mango fallen from a tree. I was eating it—half of it was already gone—when I heard you were leaving. I wanted to offer you something, anything. All I have is this half-eaten mango. Please… will you accept it?”
I can feel the hush that falls over the crowd. Eyes turn to her, then to Buddha, waiting. And then, something happens that no one expects. Buddha—he doesn’t just raise his hand like before. No, he stands up from his seat, steps down from where he’s been sitting, and walks toward her. He stretches out both hands, and with the gentlest of smiles, he takes that half-eaten mango from her. Both hands, friend. Not just a gesture, but a full, heartfelt acceptance. I can almost see the old woman’s face—those tired eyes lighting up, a mix of awe and humility, as if she can’t quite believe he’s honored her so.
Now, imagine the murmur that ripples through the crowd. Even Emperor Bimbisara, with all his power and wealth, looks puzzled. He steps forward, his voice carrying that edge of curiosity. “Bhagavan,” he asks, “you accepted all our gifts—priceless, rare things—with just a wave of your hand. But for this… this half-eaten mango, you stood up and came down to receive it. Why? What makes this so special?”
Buddha’s smile—it’s like a soft dawn breaking. He looks at the emperor, then at the old woman, and his voice is steady, warm, like he’s speaking to each person there, right to their soul. “This woman,” he says, “has given me everything she has. What you’ve offered, all of you—it’s just a small part of your wealth, a fraction of what you possess. And with it, there’s often a shadow of pride, a sense of ‘look what I’ve given.’ But this woman… she gave me her all, out of pure love, pure faith. And look at her face—there’s no pride there, only humility. Her gift, this simple mango, is the greatest of all today.”
I can feel the weight of those words, can’t you? They hang in the air, sinking into the hearts of everyone listening. It’s not about the size of the gift, or its shine. It’s about what’s behind it—the heart, the intention, the willingness to give even when you have so little. I picture that old woman standing there, her hands now empty, but her spirit so full. And I wonder… what must it have felt like, to be seen like that? To have your small, imperfect offering lifted up as the most precious of all?
You know, friend, I think about this story a lot, especially on days when I’m caught up in the rush of life. I remember a time—oh, it was a few years back—when I was struggling to make ends meet. I had this neighbor, an older guy, always sitting on his porch with a tired smile. One day, I saw he hadn’t eaten much, and I didn’t have much myself—just a loaf of bread and some soup I’d made. I split it with him, even though I wasn’t sure I’d have enough for the next day. And the way he looked at me, the quiet “thank you” he mumbled—it felt bigger than anything I could’ve bought or done with more. It wasn’t much, but it was what I had. And somehow, giving it made me feel… richer.
That’s what this story reminds me of. It’s not about giving from your extra, from what’s easy to part with. It’s about giving from your need, from your heart, without a whisper of wanting something back—not praise, not recognition, just… nothing. When you give like that, even if it’s half a mango, or half a loaf, it’s like you’ve given a piece of yourself. And isn’t that the kind of wealth that lasts?
I think about all the ways we give in our lives today—donating online, dropping coins in a jar, helping a friend move. And I wonder, how often do we give with that old woman’s heart? Without a thought of “what will people think?” or “what do I get out of this?” It’s hard, isn’t it? To let go of that little voice of pride. But maybe, just maybe, we can try. Maybe the next time we have a chance to share something—time, a kind word, a small thing we don’t want to let go of—we can remember her. That bent figure in the crowd, offering her half-eaten mango, and the way Buddha stood up to meet her.
So, let’s sit with that for a moment, friend. Let’s think about what we hold close, and how we might share it—not because we have to, but because we want to. Because in that giving, there’s a kind of freedom, a kind of fullness that nothing else can touch. I’m glad we could walk through this story together. It always leaves me a little quieter, a little softer inside. And I hope it does the same for you. Until next time, take care of yourself… and maybe, take care of someone else, too, in the smallest, truest way you can. I’ll be here, waiting to talk again.