A Mixed Blessing: The True Cost of Generosity
At times, the act of “blessing others” through monetary generosity can have unintended consequences, doing more harm than good. This became clear to me when, at the age of 14, I left home in search of what I thought would be the “real” world. I packed a backpack, strapped my pellet gun to it, and boarded a bus to Tuxpan, Veracruz, on the Gulf Coast of Mexico. I arrived in the evening, uncertain of what I would do or where I would stay, when I met a few local friends in the Zócalo, the town square. They invited me to stay at their place, and what followed would change my understanding of generosity forever.
We traveled by foot for miles, paying a few centavos each to climb into the back of a pickup truck that took us further into the hills. From there, we walked another distance on cow paths to reach their home—a shack made of sticks and mud, with a corrugated tin roof. The family’s living conditions were simple to the point of extreme poverty, yet they welcomed me as one of their own. That night, I slept on a dirt floor with chickens and pigs, wrapped in my sleeping bag. In the morning, I was introduced to the family: Doña Carmen (mom), Don Roberto (dad), and their six children—Luz Maria (17), Raul (15), Beto (14), Freddy (11), Carmelita (6), and myself.
Despite their poverty, the Gomez family was exceptionally happy. Don Roberto made a modest living renting a truck and using it to transport cattle for local ranchers and the nearby auction yard. Doña Carmen spent her days managing the household and preparing meals. The boys and I shared the task of milking cows and tending to the animals. Meals were simple, but I never went hungry. Doña Carmen took great pleasure in ensuring I ate well, and I soon learned that she and the children often took turns going without food so I could eat at every meal.
Once I discovered this, we decided to rotate our eating schedule, and I spent more time hunting for food in the surrounding jungle. We ate whatever we could find: parrots, chickens, armadillos, iguanas, and whatever meat we could catch. We raised our own chickens, geese, and cattle, and worked together to grow vegetables. The meals may have been humble, but they were shared with love, and that love was enough to fill me with gratitude.
Don Roberto, though poor by conventional standards, was a man of wisdom and generosity. One day, while walking to town, he took me aside and said, “You know that plot of land with the big mango tree on the second hill?” I nodded, having often admired the view from that spot. “Well, it’s going to be yours,” he said, explaining that he wanted me to have a piece of land where I could build a home and live if ever I needed it. He took me to the notary’s office to make it official, and I became a landowner that day. Don Roberto’s generosity was humbling—this man, who had so little, was giving me something that I could never repay.
It wasn’t until later that I realized the true value of his gift. My own life, with its privileges and comforts, was in stark contrast to his. He gave me this land not out of wealth but out of deep care and a desire to ensure that I would always have a place to call home. The experience was one of the happiest and most meaningful times of my life, and the generosity I received from the Gomez family filled me with a sense of belonging and purpose.
A few weeks later, my family came to visit the Gomez family, and my father—who was known for his generosity—learned about Don Roberto’s situation. My father, impressed by Don Roberto’s hardworking nature, decided to buy him a new Dodge truck equipped for hauling cattle. This seemed like a blessing. With the truck, Don Roberto could stop renting an old, dilapidated truck and finally run his business efficiently. The gift was large, practical, and seemed like the answer to all his problems.
However, as often happens when wealth is introduced without the accompanying wisdom, things didn’t go as planned. About six months after the truck was given, I learned that Don Roberto had been involved in an accident while driving the truck. A few months later, he was involved in another crash, this time totaling the vehicle. My father decided not to repair it. As I dug deeper, I learned that Don Roberto had been drinking both times, and had been in the company of prostitutes. The new truck had brought him a false sense of power, and with it came temptation. The truck, though generous, became a catalyst for self-destruction.
Within a year, Don Roberto had abandoned his family, and the Gomez household was torn apart. What had seemed like a blessing—money that would improve their lives—had instead become a curse. This experience taught me an invaluable lesson: giving someone material wealth without understanding their true needs or the challenges they face can often do more harm than good.
This doesn’t mean that monetary gifts are inherently bad or that people should avoid giving them. But it underscores the importance of understanding that wealth—especially when it’s given with the intention of “blessing” others—can create false expectations, inflating egos and disrupting lives in ways that aren’t always visible at first. Sometimes, what people really need isn’t more money but rather our time, understanding, and a deeper connection to the root causes of their challenges.
I’ve come to understand that when we truly want to help others, the most meaningful form of support comes not from simply throwing money at a problem, but from giving of ourselves—our time, our talents, our love, and our presence. A gift of money can temporarily fix a problem, but it rarely addresses the underlying issues that lead to it in the first place. Genuine blessings come when we share who we are, not just what we have.
I think about the times when my friend, Keith, a talented stylist, would invite me over for dinner. I would go to their home, enjoy a warm meal, and get a haircut. But the real gift wasn’t the haircut—it was the time we spent together, the love they shared, and the friendship that bound us. Keith and Heather didn’t just give me a haircut; they shared a part of themselves, making the experience far more meaningful than any monetary gift ever could.
Similarly, the gift my father gave to the Gomez family, while well-intentioned, wasn’t the blessing he thought it was. Had he instead taken the time to invest in Don Roberto’s growth—not just financially but in wisdom, support, and love—things may have turned out differently. Perhaps Don Roberto would have learned from my father’s entrepreneurial spirit and found a deeper sense of purpose and responsibility. Maybe my father would have learned to slow down and enjoy life’s simpler pleasures, as Don Roberto had taught me. There’s no way to know, but the story illustrates a key truth: the true value of a blessing lies not in what we give, but in how we give it—and whether we give a part of ourselves along with it.
In the Barbequian way of life, true generosity is not about giving away money, but about sharing who we are. When we contribute our time, our energy, and our wisdom, we not only bless others but ourselves as well. It is this mutual exchange of energy that leads to true growth and fulfillment.