Giving and receiving bind us to each other

Considering St. Francis' famous prayer, line by line

Illustration by Julie Gabrielli

For it is in giving that we receive

This phrase is familiar to most of us. The joy of giving is greater than the pleasure of receiving. Yet giving carries risk and requires courage. What if our gift is ignored or refused? Or simply not appreciated? If it’s something selected with care, sourced from deep inside, the refusal of an intimate, heartfelt gift can feel devastating. Even shaming. Giving is vulnerable. No wonder some of us¹ hold in our generosity, especially if we have been burned in the past.

St. Francis doesn’t specify what we receive when we give, only that we receive. Who among us hasn’t been given a harsh lesson in humility? Or the importance of detaching from outcomes? I’ve been known to give with a certain expectation of how the recipient would react, only to be crushed by their indifference or overt dislike. The lesson is not to refrain from giving. If anything, giving without expectation is an advanced course in humility, as well as generosity. It’s not for the recipient’s reaction that we give. It’s to experience reciprocity.

Generosity is, itself, reflexive. The act of giving, whether of time, attention, nourishment, or material goods, is its own reward, because it binds me to the receiver. Giving goes outward and returns, a tangible enactment of my interdependence.

When I give, I have the satisfaction of knowing, at least in this moment, that I can be thoughtful and selfless. My connection to another person is confirmed. I know I’m not alone. Whether what I’m giving is to their liking or perfectly suited to them is beside the point. The aphorism, “It’s the thought that counts,” tells us that giving is not about the material things. It reveals the deeper truth of our oneness.

I’ve found this to be true even² with non-humans, simply by giving my attention. I’ve also experimented with modest material offerings like drops of water.³ When I go into the woods, slow down and let my senses lead me, I encounter snails with perfect spiral shells, adorable moss in flower, fallen leaves of brilliant design, rain coursing down craggy tree bark in tiny rainbow bubbles, a loquacious stream. These beings are all around, minding their own business. When I give my attention to them, I receive surprises in return: wonders of pattern, sound, intricacy, color, and feeling that delight my mind and heart. Beyond initial sensory impressions, there is wisdom in their examples, if only I tune in and listen. They sing of their wildness and belonging and resilience—and of mine.

The phrase, quality time, has a ring of truth to it. When I catch myself giving my son only cursory attention in my distraction and busyness, I have the choice to try again. Usually, he’s the one to demand better from me. I can’t think of a single time I regret giving him my full attention, though I’ve lost count of the number of times I wish I had. Who knows what magical moment might have occurred had I done otherwise?

A practicing Buddhist father transformed his story about parenting along these very lines. He had been thinking of time with his young son—feeding, caring for, or playing with him—as cutting into “his time,” forcing him to give up meditation or reading or other adult pursuits. He noticed his attitude led to reluctance, sometimes even resentment. When he changed his story to see that time with his son is “his time,” everything changed. This isn’t a self-centered distortion of reality; it’s an acceptance of interconnection. It’s clarity about what matters most.

Receiving is also a form of giving. When someone offers to do something for me or invites me over for dinner, it’s not always easy to say yes. I was taught to reciprocate, but in a way that results in keeping score and causing me to worry about whether I want to be in a position of owing this person. Giving and receiving are not about keeping score or fairness. To accept a gift or kind gesture gives my benefactor the gift of being generous and connecting with me on a generous, heartfelt level.

If life has been good, we’ve all experienced the joy that comes from both giving and receiving. I love the process of holding a friend in my imagination, carrying them with me while choosing or making a gift for them. And, likewise, thinking of a friend who’s given me something every time I use it—as I did with a simple tin of tea received for my birthday. Every cup I made reminded me of that friend and the care she put into choosing it for me, and of the moment I opened it, and our time together that day, and on other days. . . expanding outward to an infinite web of connections and precious moments.

Today I will practice giving from the heart. I will act bravely on the desire to connect and share something precious of myself. I’ll remember that, as long as it feels good to give, I’ve done my part. I won’t expect to control or influence the response. This whole series on the St. Francis prayer is good practice for me, to send out these thoughts without expectation. When I take stock of what I receive from this practice of writing and giving, it’s a rich harvest indeed.

The previous line of the prayer, To be loved as to love, is here.

Start at the beginning of the series:

Prayer is an expression of reciprocity

Thanks for being here on this journey through St. Francis’ prayer. If you missed our recent Reciprocity interview with the wonderful nature writer, John Lovie, you can read it here.

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1. (or is it just me?)

2. or, especially

3. I refrain from corn pollen or tobacco, since this is not in my own cultural tradition.