darted a look at the huge gleaming metal stockpot that, when full, would need the arms of someone stronger than I to lift and carry it away. Next to the pot sat a deep and wide cooking bowl, filled to the edge with shiny little black beans.

My palms itched, ready to grasp the Cutco knife handle and chop the delicate and richly leafed cilantro. But first I indulged in letting the raw beans drip through my fingers into the large silver bowl. I imagined each bean being able to give life and health as I picked them up and sifted them through my fingers a few more times, feeling their cool smooth surfaces cascade through my hands. Shaking away my whimsy, I dropped the last bean into the bowl and set about slicing and dicing the onions, green peppers, garlic, and, of course, the verdant cilantro.

As I stirred the simmering mass inside the big pot, I breathed in the fragrance of home-cooked black bean soup. Smashing a lone bean onto the cutting board, I determined the soup was done and got the container ready for transport. My husband and I loaded the towel-shrouded kettle onto the floor of the car and took off for the city streets.

We parked near a street corner infamous for its derelict crowds. The homeless and the needy lived in this part of the city�a place surburbanites like us would never frequent at night. But it was a sunny Sunday afternoon, and the small church group that had congregated had a mission. We quickly set up our rickety 3' x 3' card table and arranged sandwich and fruit sack lunches.

Waiting for those willing to walk up to the table were the brown-bagged meals and a cup of steamy black bean soup. I was glad when we started dishing out the beans, for the old table seemed ready to crack in two under the pot�s weight. The sun was toasty, but the day itself breathed arctic air around us as a large crowd formed, eager for a cup of heated food.

An amazing transformation occurred.� The formerly somber and suspicious crowd fairly danced and cavorted in the street as bowl after bowl of soup was devoured. All I had made was a pot of beans, yet they seemed a life elixir. Energy from the hot aromatic fare snapped through the throng, and joy was almost as palpable (and palatable) as the black beans themselves.

We scraped the last of the food from the container amid profuse thank-you�s. Smiles had lightened withered old faces. They�d splashed sparkle on children�s dirty countenances. And they had brightened weary parents� expressions. Those beans had an amazing effect.

I recalled this experience a few weeks ago when I read the February 12, 2001, Perspectives page of Newsweek magazine (p. 19). One quote, from Anna Nicole Smith, a former model who was married to the now-deceased octogenarian-millionaire J. Howard Marshall II, read: �It�s very expensive to be me.� Smith was referring to how she managed to spend $6.7 million on clothes, jewelry, and homes during her 14-month marriage.

Another quote was from an earthquake survivor in Chopwadia, India, who said: �We have nothing to eat, nothing to wear, nothing at all.�

I was astounded by the vast difference in, well, the perspective. The Smith quote had angered me. How could someone pursue such extravagancies when so many just want a bite to eat and a shirt to wear? The Chopwadia quote had not angered me. It had affected me. How awful would it be to lose everything and not have even a scrap of sustenance�not to have the bare neccessities of life.

I thought about my Smithlike dreams of a new car, new clothes, new wallpaper. Then I discerned that I was more Chopwadialike, with a Christian walk that was starved, naked, barren. And then, finally, I remembered the beans.

Those beans�they had an amazing effect. My friends and I fed those who needed physical sustenance. We also fed them Christian charity. It wasn�t specifically labeled�like a copy of Steps to Christ, or a satellite seminar pamphlet�but I believe they got His love anyway. And I was also blessed as I fed from the needy�s example of joy in the basics. I didn�t need the trappings of a Smith society. I, too, simply needed the soup (Ps. 22:26).

I will make another pot of beans to share. Now. And again and again. Lest I forget.

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Kimberly Luste Maran is an assistant editor of the Adventist Review