Nuschar Allah

In this time of Thanksgiving, when we attend a table laden with the fruits of the earth and the stuffed turkey draws us together in community, everyone pauses in reverence even as we as we delight in swapping stories about all sorts of things. I give thanks both for the obvious bounty surrounding this day, but also for something greater - the very given Ordinary: the roof over our heads and the money in our pockets.

Early on, I was led to the certainty that the flow of money comes from a Divine Source, and that my best return to God for that currency was making sure to say, Thank you. More pointedly, Meister Eckardt, the twelfth century mystic taught his students: “If the only prayer you say is ‘Thank You,’ it is enough.”

My Arabic father was very sure about certain matters and the everyday back and forth flow of money was one of them. To him, all money’s blessings came from God. “You work hard, you take risks, you pray like hell and for all of it, you never forget to say thank you.” Or more to the point, I would hear him utter the Arabic phrase, Nuschar Allah at every turn: Thank you God.

Underlying my immigrant father’s sense of awe in the market place was always that simple Nuschar Allah. It was daily grace bestowed and he rarely forgot it as he stuffed precious green bills into our grocery cash register or later on, banking bigger profits from land acquisitions.

Profits in our grocery grew. Every gain sent him escalating to ever wider ownership. Soon he was expanding beyond the walls of his little store into the surrounding Florida land he loved so well, one parcel after another, even to acquiring an orange grove. Of course, Dad didn’t have a clue about how to grow oranges. To him it was a simple matter: “Florida is orange groves. We have to acquire one!”

Azar’s Market stood amid the galloping whiff of orange blossoms. It was about the size of an average convenience store, lit by white fluorescent lights and cooled by wooden ceiling fans whirling the Florida heat out the door. Orlando, in the forties was a sleepy city then, only two core department stores, surrounded by cattle ranches and crystal lakes. In these days of Orlando’s blown away commerce, I sometimes long for that forgotten old time neighborhood.

I spent much of my youth playing grocery store until, at one point, my father looked down on his nine year old daughter and saw another helpmate. Even though from behind the counter I could barely reach the cash register keys, I got my first lesson on a rainy afternoon when the playground was only puddles. “Push these keys down, hard! Listen to the bell, count out loud when you give customers change”

Soon, the money flowed through my own fingers. Pure Grown Up! I totaled patron’s loaves of bread and ice-cold coke on the counter, weighed bunches of tomatoes, and even advised them they could get two cans of black-eyed peas for the price of one. Customers smiled at this little dark-haired child pressing the right keys, and who always honored dad’s mandate: “Never let them go without saying thank you.”

In the sixties, Charles Azar sold Azar’s Market and at last viewing, it had morphed into a Vietnamese grocery where other young immigrants set themselves on the path to the American Dream that my father had pioneered so many years before. Dad retired to his kitchen, singing his Syrian songs as he prepared various ancient recipes - today’s touted health conscious offerings: tabouli, humus, stuffed grapevines leaves to name only a few. He pursued readings in his huge Arabic Christian bible at the dining room table, savoring God’s words about the abundant blessings given to old King Solomon. He continued to thank God each time a profit of some sort came to him, regularly returning a portion of that bounty to St. George’s, his local Greek Orthodox church.

When finally he lay dying in what was then called, Orange Memorial hospital, his soul was ready. He had carried the twenty-third psalm, The Lord is my Shepherd in his wallet and which now hangs framed in my own home. This Orlando pioneer completed his earthly work Every piece of Florida land he owned had been blessed. Every untethered risk he took flowed from his deep sense of faith, love and gratitude expressed by that ever blooming, Nuschar Allah.

It's a Spiritual Thing

Sitting a table in the mall’s food court, my husband Jim and I watched an oriental woman, cleaning tables. At some point, she glanced over and smiled the sweetest of smiles. Her face was that of a child, bright eyes and clear skin. I couldn’t resist, and Jim agreed. Timidly, as we never know how the beneficiary will respond, he crossed over to her hiding a bill in his palm. This bill to us is, in a sense, was just another bill, but perhaps to her, it could be the bill that might buy her week’s groceries. She smiled again, and looked over to me with yes, love in those bright eyes. Was she an angel sent by God just for us?

I struggle with that awful question: How can I use money and not be used by it? How can I give and not feel foolish after the giving. How can I know when I must give to someone less fortunate?

There are many incidents of confusion that I might relate here, but one that comes to mind was a particular incident that happened about 9:00 p.m. driving home through dark, and quiet streets after a visit with a friend. I stopped for a red light at an even darker and yes, scary corner. Secure in my cadallic, I saw this homeless man, or so he seemed, leaning against the wall of a run down building. One knee was bent as his foot rested on the wall He seemed intent on watching passing cars, apparently waiting to catch a stopped car at the light. No other car was in in place with me. The light kept me waiting not far from him.

Suddenly, I felt an onslaught of emotion, streaks of fear, glad that I had electric locks which in one quick press of a button, I secured all doors. All windows were up. I was safe, locked in.

But this man stepped into the street walking to my passenger side. I was conflicted, conscious of the inequality. Here I sat comfortably driving an upscale, air-conditioned car while he seemingly employed his feet for transportation. Sure, there was ample money in my pocket to give him. That’s probably what he wanted. And probably harmless, I, nevertheless, felt that demon of fear. That fear held me, took me captive, emotionally apart from this human being. I failed to reach out and hand him a twenty living in my wallet. Paradoxically, that long wait for the light to change forced me to grab that twenty in my hand. “Give him the damn twenty, I thought. What I did was to press the side window button, slit it just enough to pitch the bill out, forcing him to stoop to the ground to retrieve it. He walked back and away. The light turned green. I revved up the motor and scooted out of there.

So what did I carry home? No great feelings around the virtue of generosity but only feelings of shame. Blinded by fear, I had treated another human like an animal, throwing him a bone, forcing him to stoop to the ground for it. Fear can be an awful distraction from doing the good we want to accomplish.

One friend attempted to console me: “Honey, that was smart. Keep those doors locked.” Was she smart? Maybe. Yet, I don’t pass that corner without remembering that needy young man. One nun friend told me “You weren’t your best You. You’re going to have to live with it.”

There is always someone within sight who can use an extra bill or two. The habit of generosity moves a soul to stretch, to play a vital part in the world’s movement of money. And you and I have to decide when it’s part of God’s direction to send out that money. But when we resist, we have to live with it. It’s a spiritual thing.