Ilse, a childhood friend of mine, once found a raspberry in the camp and carried it in her pocket all day to present it to me that night on a leaf. Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry, and you give it to a friend.                                                                                             Gerda Weissmann Klein, Holocaust Survivor

Ask anyone in my family, and they will tell you that I don’t view television programs or movies. I experience them. We’re talking full-body experience of the often painful sort. I’ve clawed my way through suspense, wounding myself and companions and leaving bloody reminders of climatic scenes on forearms and hands. I’ve tented myself with sweatshirts or jackets, peering through a neck peephole at horror that is predictable (every seven minutes or so–I’ve timed the interludes between hackings) but nonetheless scream-worthy. I’ve outfitted myself with kleenexes and cried at the opening theme songs of Lassie and countless other poignant programs.

When I experienced Schindler’s List for the first time, however, this was both a full-body and out-of-body experience. Even today, having seen the film thirty or more times, within seconds, I am standing behind a barbed wire fence, my hair shorn, my hand clutching my mother’s, awaiting the selection. This film assaults my senses in ways I cannot begin to describe. And yet, it also ushers me into the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry, that tangible and intangible place in which singularity matters.

Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry, and you give it to a friend.  Yes, imagine this world of single possessions given willingly to another. In the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry, one thing, one word, one touch or gesture can save a life and soul. In the final scene of Schindler’s List, Oskar Schindler speaks through tears to a crowd of Jewish survivors, grieving his inability to save more of their families and friends. His accountant, Itzhak Stern, presses a gold ring into his palm, a ring that he and other Jewish survivors created in tribute to the man who gave them work and, as a result, saved their lives. Inscribed on the ring is this Hebrew line from the Talmud: Whoever saves one life saves the world entire. A single life, a single raspberry. In this sanctuary, singularity saves the world entire. 

For there is magic math in the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry. One word from a sideline coach affirms the efforts of a team, one raised hand, one question opens a room for many voices, and one touch–a hand that covers another–encourages one who sits weeping, solitary in his loss, to touch another, who touches yet another. In Mark 6:41, we read how Jesus fed 5,000:

Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave them to his disciples to distribute to the people. 

So little fed so many. This is the “new” math in the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry. It defies numerical logic. Turn your head, blink your eyes, and where there was a base of one, you find the exponent of many has performed its magic.

Don S. was the only fifth grader who was never chosen for a kickball team at recess. He was always the last kid standing in the middle of the field after the two captains had picked their teams. By default, he earned a spot as last man standing. As such, he had never heard his name called until one October recess when I was captain. To my shame, I had never chosen Don, never actually given him much time or thought. Until that recess, when I called his name. First pick. I’m not sure what prompted me to really see him that day. I’d like to think it was the prompting of the Holy Spirit or, at least, a sense of social responsibility, unfamiliar yet urgent. I called his name, and with that, I presented a single raspberry on a leaf to a friend.

Years later, I received a phone call in my college dorm room. Given his one phone call from the county jail, Don called me. I don’t remember what he had done to land himself there, but I do remember his voice, a voice that carried me back to that elementary playground on the day during which both of our lives were changed. In the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry, one moment in time can forge a bond that spans years.

Truthfully, too much of my life has been defined by the pursuit of many and more. I have chanted more is better when I knew better. More time, more money, more knowledge, more accolades. And at my fingertips? Single moments, single things, single words and ideas that could be–should be–served up lovingly on a bed of leaves.

When I was in Nigeria several years ago, I was smitten with this little girl who came out to meet us in the village of Bambur. Before I left Iowa, I had been warned–by family and friends–that I wouldn’t be able to bring any children home. (They know me all too well, I’m afraid.) All I could offer this girl was my hand as we walked the dirt paths of her village. Still, in the Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry, I had felt the power of a single hand and understood that long after I left Africa, I would carry this child with me.

A month after I returned, I thought about Gerda Weissmann Klein’s words and imagined myself in Bambur, a single mango my entire worldly possession. I imagined myself gathering cassava root for drying, working the maize fields, the mango stowed lovingly away until I could return to the village. Until I could give it to my friend.  An ocean away, however, I had to settle for writing my intentions.

To My Friend

In the dry season when little grows,

everything is edible:

bark from breadfruit trees,

termites, even goat dung.

When land and skin turn ashen,

you feast on the memory of mango,

now a shimering specter

in the noonday sun.

In the absence of sweet meat and juice

that once stained your fingers and chin,

you drool dust.

.

In a world gone dormant,

how can your loveliness live?

If there were one ripe mango in your village,

I would carry it in my pocket

all day.

And tonight when you lie outside your mud hut—

one perfect piece

in a quilt of small, sleeping children–

imagine me kneeling,

then placing my gift on a leaf

near your face.                                                                                                                                                                            .

Imagine me your friend.

The Sanctuary of a Single Raspberry opens up before us daily. I’m training myself to do the “new math” and present single gifts for multiplying. For if a single raspberry or soul can save the world entire, then I can think of no greater singularity to steer my course.