Gerda Weissmann Klein, a Holocaust survivor, told a story about her friend, Ilse, when they were both in one of the worst Nazi concentration camps.

“She once found a raspberry in the gutter on the way to the factory…and she saved it all day long.

She carried it in her pocket – the temptation must have been incredible – and she gave it to me that night on a leaf. She had plucked a leaf through the barbed wire, washed it and presented me with one slightly bruised raspberry.”

Ilse’s only possession in the world was a bruised raspberry, that she found, and it became her sole focus to protect it and give it to her friend.

That is generosity in its purest form. She could have consumed it herself and no one would have known, but the idea of bringing her friend an ounce of joy in the darkest of places was much more important to her than anything else.

I don’t know about you, but upon reading about Ilse and Gerda I arrived at a point where I felt like I could never become generous like that. I am honestly not sure I could be capable of that sort of generosity or love.

At the same time, I am aware of the sense of joy that an outrageous, sacrificial act of generosity can bring.

I could buy punnets of raspberries today, set up a table on the street and hand them out one by one, to be just like Ilse, but that is ridiculous. It’s not about the raspberry, this story is about the sacrifice. The challenge that I find here is about whether my generosity costs me something, or if I am giving out of comfort. There is nothing wrong with that, but my sense is that generosity without a cost is a platitude.