If you will allow me, I am going to sound a bit like Paul Harvey giving “the rest of the story.” The other day I was reading an article written for McCalls magazine in December 1961. It was written by Nelle Lee.
Although she was originally from Alabama, she was spending Christmas in Manhattan. She was, at the time, working for an airline and, after work, she would return home and write until she was too tired to write anymore, and then go to bed. She did this most days. Of course, Christmas was different.
She was away from home, so she spent the day with friends. She awoke on Christmas morning and came downstairs to watch her friend’s boys playing in the middle of the living room with their new toys. All the while, she tried to hide her sadness at not being at home for Christmas.
Into this melancholy state was the added disappointment that none of the gifts in the home seemed to be for her.
I will let Nelle Lee tell the story in her words:

My disappointment was growing steadily, but I tried not to show it.
They took their time, Finally she said, “We haven’t forgotten you. Look on the tree.”
There was an envelope on the tree, addressed to me. I opened it and read: “You have one year off from your job to write whatever you please. Merry Christmas.”
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“What it says,” I was told.
They assured me that is was not some sort of joke. They’d had a good year, they said. They’d saved some money and thought it was high time they did something about me.
“What do you mean, do something about me?”
To tell the truth—if I really wanted to know—they thought I had a great talent, and—
“What makes you think that?”
It was plain to anyone who knew me, they said, if anyone would stop to look. They wanted to show their faith in me the best way they knew how. Whether I ever sold a line was immaterial. They wanted to give me a full, fair chance to learn my craft, free from the harassments of a regular job. Would I accept their gift? There were no strings at all. Please accept, with their love.
It took some time to find my voice. When I did, I asked if they were out of their minds. What made them think anything would come of this? They didn’t have that kind of money to throw away. A year was a long time. What if the children came down with something horrible? As objection crowded upon objection, each was overruled. “We’re all young,” they said, “We can cope with whatever happens. If disaster strikes, you can always find a job of some kind. Okay, consider it a loan, then, if you wish. We just want you to accept. Just permit us to believe in you. You must.”
“It’s a fantastic gamble,” I murmured. “It’s such a great risk.”
My friend looked around his living room, at his boys, half buried under a pile of bright Christmas wrapping paper. His eyes sparkled as they met his wife’s, and they exchanged a glance of what seemed to me insufferable smugness. Then he looked at me and said softly; “No honey. It’s not a risk. It’s a sure thing.”

She accepted the gift, and during that year, Nelle Harper Lee wrote the first draft of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” This book not only won the Pulitzer Prize, but also is considered by many the greatest American novel of the 20th century.
It was born, as Lee tells it, not “by an act of generosity, but by an act of love.”
Here, of course, is where I should conclude by saying, “now you know the rest of the story.” But you don’t, do you? Perhaps the rest of the story is yet to be told. Perhaps the rest of the story is beginning right now.
In the Acts of the Apostles (4:36-37 to be exact) we are told of a young man named Joseph whom the Apostles give a special nickname. They call him “Barnabas,” a name that means “son of encouragement.” Can you think of a nobler name, a more profound title?
Who in your life is waiting for encouragement from you in order to become fully alive? We are called to be sons and daughters of encouragement in a world (and perhaps even a church) where cynicism and bitterness seem to dominate.
Our response is a simple and ancient one, the gift of encouragement, an act of love.
Give this gift to someone. Tell them, in a multitude of ways, “Just permit us to believe in you. You must.”