I Gave Away My Mother's Stockpot

Someone had posted in our town’s Facebook group that they were seeking basics for a young family who arrived in the U.S. a month ago from Afghanistan. They had witnessed a number of traumatic events in their evacuation from Kabul.

The family with their three little ones had been living in a hotel room for a month. And they just got their first apartment.

They have nothing.

At Christmas, I had sent the person a gift card so she could help get some things for the kids. And now that they are in their apartment, I remembered that we had some extra kitchen items in the basement.

I went down to check it out, pulling out the giant cardboard box that held an odd collection of things. It had a small George Foreman, a deep fryer, an electric griddle, an electric knife, some old plates and glasses, and my mom’s stockpot.

These things had been there in a box since we moved in. So, I took pictures of everything and sent it to the woman in town.

But I debated about my mom’s stockpot for a few days.

Everything else was easy to part with. But the Farberware pot was what she used to make her ever-famous chili. It was the pot that held the turkey carcass for soup after Thanksgiving. The pot she used to make spaghetti. It was one of the few things I had that still carried her energy.

First, I brought the pot upstairs and put it in our pantry, thinking that I would pull it out on occasion to make something. But then the friend of the family responded that everything looked great—they would take it all—and would I drop the items off for them at their new apartment?

Of course I would.

I loaded up my car—including an old office chair with some rips in the fake leather. I felt a bit ashamed giving that to them. But I would feel worse bringing it to the dump. They needed an office chair, and anything is better than nothing when that’s what you have.

And I brought the stockpot.

The mom looked like she could be in high school. The dad made trips back and forth with me from my car up the three flights of stairs. I tried to explain how the George Foreman grill was missing the grease tray, but he said, “I don’t speak much English,” and “Come inside,” he said, “Come inside.”

The friend who had posted about the family in the Facebook group was there. She introduced everyone to me—the mom and her three kids—who were 5, 3, and an infant—and the friend’s own three kids. We talked a bit, and I explained the George Foreman to her—she hadn’t seen one. And then I pulled the stockpot out of the box.

I held it to my chest. “This was my mother’s,” I said. “A lot of love was made in this,” and I patted the lid. The friend translated in Dari for the young mom, who gave a half smile.

I think she understood.

And then I left.

I got a little teary as I drove away. It felt sad to be leaving my mom’s stockpot behind.

But I knew my mom would be happy with the decision. She had engaged me as a volunteer for a local Y that did international work back when I was the young mother’s age. My mother had asked me to design a brochure to support their work, and I attended a fundraising dinner with her. I remember meeting some young people from the former Yugoslavia and from the Middle East.

I still have the brochure.

Still, I wonder if the stockpot is still in the cardboard box. I wonder if they have made something in it yet. I wonder if they can even get to the grocery store to get what they need. I wonder about the high cost of electricity and how I gave them all these electric things.

I also gave them a dozen brand-new toothbrushes. The friend texted me afterwards, laughing, saying the young mom wondered if I was a dentist because of all those toothbrushes. But no, I said, we just get one every time we go to the dentist. And I didn't tell her that we have electric toothbrushes, so we can't use them all.

Us and our electric toothbrushes. Our privilege is suffocating.

Tara Brach says, “To be kind, you must swerve regularly from your path.”

This was a tiny swerve. Here, it was easy for me to be kind. We have resources. We have things we can give. I have a car that I can drive to drop off things. But I don’t want to be kind just when it’s easy.

I want to be kind when someone upsets me.

I want to be kind when there’s injustice.

I want to be kind when someone holds different values than I do.

I want to be kind when I am exhausted, or mad.

What will help me remember to be kind, always? Even when it’s hard?