How one-tenth as a giving guide began

I remember the first time I put money into the offering plate as it was passed. I was around 7 or 8 years old. My grandpa had given me a $20 bill for my birthday; my grandma had given me a $2 bill and a Susan B. Anthony coin. (I still have that $2 bill and the ones she gave me each year after that, plus a whole collection of Susan B. Anthony coins.) But that $20 bill—that was the most money I had ever seen, and it was mine. I felt rich.

At church that weekend, I remember that I wanted with everything in me to put that $20 bill in the offering plate. I wanted to be able to give like the grown-ups. So, I did. I put my birthday money in the offering plate—neither my parents nor my grandpa stopped me. I was worried that he might be mad at me for giving away my birthday money, but when I looked up, he was smiling and had tears in his eyes. I asked him if he was sad that I gave my birthday money away. He hugged me and told me he wasn’t sad at all. He loved me and was proud of me.

As a 7- or 8-year-old, I did not understand. Why would giving away money make someone cry? Now I think about that moment differently. I think this is what it must look like to God when we give—not just the money he’s blessed us with, but our time, our love, our abilities, our compassion, our grace. All of it belongs to him anyway. When we offer it with open hands, with the unselfconscious joy I had as a child, I think God smiles at us the way my grandpa smiled at me. Not because he needs what we’re giving, but because he simply loves us. Because in that moment of letting go, we’re trusting him in the most vulnerable, everyday way.

I didn’t give out of guilt or obligation that Sunday morning. I didn’t worry about what I’d have left over or whether I was giving the “right amount.” I just gave because I wanted to, because it felt like the right thing to do, because I was moved by something I couldn’t quite name. And looking back, I think that’s what generosity is supposed to feel like—before we complicate it with all our adult anxieties about control and security and whether there will be enough.

Somewhere between childhood and now, giving became more complicated. I started asking questions like “Can I afford this?” or “what will I have left?” Those aren’t bad questions–they’re wise and responsible. But somewhere in learning to be a good steward of what God has given me, I also became more hesitant, more careful about loosening my grip. I wonder if there’s a way to be both responsible and open-handed at the same time, to ask the wise questions while still trusting that God is faithful, that there’s enough.

All my life, there have been moments when I could give extravagantly to help others, and moments when I’ve needed to receive someone else’s generosity. Those sound like two sides of the coin, but both require the same thing I had as a child and struggle with as an adult: open hands. Both require vulnerability.

I’ve learned that receiving is just as hard as giving, maybe harder. When someone offers help and I wave them off with “No, no, I’m fine,” what am I really saying? “I don’t want to be a burden”? “I should be able to handle this myself”? I avoid the vulnerability of being known as someone who needs something. But when we refuse to receive, we’re refusing relationship. We’re saying, “I’ll play the role of giver, you play the role of needer,” which isn’t mutuality at all. It’s just hierarchy with manners. And we’re refusing to practice the very posture we need with God.

Because God insists on being the ultimate giver. We don’t earn grace. We don’t work our way to salvation by being good enough. The relationship starts with receiving, with God’s love poured out for us before we did anything to deserve it. Yes, we offer our worship, our praise, our love in return. But it all begins with open hands, willing to receive what only God can give.

And trust is what makes our giving meaningful. If I struggle to receive, I often struggle to give well, too. I give from obligation, from guilt, from a need to prove something or fix something or keep myself feeling valuable. I give in ways that keep me safe and in charge. Real generosity—the kind that costs us something, the kind that looks like an 8-year-old putting her birthday money in the offering plate—requires the same vulnerability as receiving. It requires trust.

I believe God is glorified in both the giving and the receiving. I think he smiles down on us when we finally get it, when we realize he has blessed us with every intention of us being generous with those blessings. And in times when we receive, he is also glorified, because those moments are when his faithfulness to provide and care for us is on full display.

Generosity isn’t just about the amount we give or even what we give. It’s about the posture—open hands in both directions. It’s about living like we believe there’s enough, that God is faithful, that we’re designed for this kind of interdependence, where sometimes we’re the givers and sometimes we’re the receivers, and both are sacred.

I hope you might rediscover some of that childhood openness—the kind that gives without calculating, that receives without shame, that trusts there’s enough. May you find the courage to loosen your grip on the things you’ve been holding so tightly and discover the freedom that comes with open hands. May you discover that in both the giving and the receiving, God is at work, shaping us into people who trust him more deeply, who love each other more fully, and who live with our hands open—ready to give, and willing to receive.