She was sitting where Jane Goodall had sat a few weeks ago.

KU Jacket, KU stickers on her computer.  Books arranged in a semicircle around her on the table.   Studying, by the looks of things, for a medical degree.

Early twenties.  Pretty.  Studious.

In a word, well put together.

I was sitting in my favorite place at the high table; the painting on the wall had changed from total abstract to a little less abstract. 

I was well into my project, fingers and thoughts meshed in a nice thrum that felt like it was getting places.

Her phone rang.  I could tell it was an old friend on the other end; probably not seen recently due to school requirements.  They were planning a get-together for later sometime. 

In between they chit-chatted, catching up on each other’s lives.

About then the gal on the other end of the line said she was going to bring something to the deal out of the goodness of her heart.  She didn’t say it in a way to lift herself up, just more by way of information.

“Oh my word,” said Miss KU, “you don’t have to do that!”

The other gal said she knew that, but she wanted to.

And then I heard it in Miss KU.  A subtle inflection in her voice.

“Don’t go there,” I muttered under my breath.  Because too many times I have, and I know the general outcome of such.

But she went there.

“Do you like homemade bread?” she asked.

“Stop,” I begged, again to myself.  But I knew it was useless.

It was enough of an out of character question that the gal on the other end asked Miss KU to repeat what she said.

“Do you like homemade bread? If you do, I could whip up a batch of it tonight and bring some over to your place on my way out of town.”

I can’t be too hard on Miss KU.  She was young, and probably did what anyone else that age would have done.

*****

We had our family Christmas yesterday.  I couldn’t wait to give my gifts.  I had so much fun trying to find just exactly what I thought the ones I was buying for would want.  I think the joy I felt in giving probably comes from the old saying, “It’s more blessed to give than to receive.”

I wonder, though, if there isn’t a secondary blessed that often gets overlooked, maybe even crowded completely out.

This secondary blessed seems to bless both the giver and receiver when properly attended to. 

But it has every potential to wreck things, subtract if you will, when thought isn’t given to it.

If I am really thankful for what I received, do I need to rave on and on about it? 

Such raving leaves the giver with an emaciated piece of confidence that has them guessing as to whether their gift had been the right thing or not.

A few quiet words, spoken from the heart, mean so much more than a huge verbal bouquet. 

And please, don’t try to one up the spirit with something of your own. 

I know.  Sometimes we are so glad and happy for what we have been given that it’s almost natural to suddenly hear ourselves asking if our friend likes homemade bread. 

I’m suspicious Miss KU’s friend did like homemade bread, but if it could have waited, say, a few weeks, and then been quietly given some evening, I think it could have acknowledged every gratitude of the first exchange and then some.  Dare I say, even a simple “Thank you” could have been enough? 

It’s a secondary blessed, sure, but powerful. 

Sort of like a line I read in a book some years ago about an old man who had given a younger man something of his own possessions.  And, it said, he thought the more of the young man when he didn’t offer to pay for it.