News

Growing up, my parents worked hard. We didn’t have much, but they made sure we had what we needed. I would often hear mums’ prayers at night, thanking God for what we had. Always saying, it was more than enough.

Wednesdays were Ham Steak Night—a practical, affordable meal. Sometimes, we would have a cooked Pineapple on the top. As a child, I couldn’t see the love or effort behind it. All I saw was a plate I dreaded.

Every Wednesday, I’d quietly slip my ham steak into my pocket and toss it over the fence. Week after week, this became my routine. My mum must have known, but she never said a word.

Until the day the neighbour, Mr Gregory, knocked on our door. In his hand was a ham steak. He handed it back with a smile, and my mum just nodded. She didn’t scold me, didn’t call me out in front of anyone. Instead, she pulled me aside and let the moment speak for itself.

The following Wednesday, when dinner came, there was no ham steak for me—or for her. Instead, my mum handed me a letter.

The letter told me she given my ham steak to someone who needed it—a man in town who doesn’t always have a warm meal. As for why she didn't have one, she was my mum. If i went  without, so would she.

In that moment, my childish annoyance melted into something profound. I saw my mum’s quiet wisdom, her selflessness, and her strength. She didn’t punish me or demand gratitude; she taught me what it looked like.

That Wednesday, Ham Steak Night became something far more significant. It wasn’t about a meal I didn’t like—it was about a lesson in humility, gratitude, and giving. My mum turned my complaint into a chance to show me that when we share what we have, it grows.

Now, when I think about those nights, I don’t remember the taste of the ham steak I despised. I remember the love of a mum who taught me to see beyond myself, who taught me that gratitude isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about appreciating what we have—and finding ways to give it to others.

As we enter this season of giving, I carry her lesson with me. Gratitude isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s wrapped in the quiet sacrifice of a mother who shared more than just her meal.

Ps - for reference  - I loved her Apricot Chicken.

Trish Jarvis - Executive Officer