A Coin in Every Hand

A retelling for children, based on Mahmúd's Diary (entry of 19 April 1912).

It was evening in the great city of New York, and 'Abdu'l-Bahá had already had a long day. His American hosts had filled His days with fine plans — people to meet, places to visit, important rooms full of important guests. But on this night, 'Abdu'l-Bahá set those plans aside. There was somewhere else He wanted to go.

He asked to be taken to a place called the Bowery Mission.

In the New York of those days, the Bowery was where the poorest people of the city came. Men who had no homes. Men who had no work. Men who were tired and broken and forgotten by almost everyone. At the Mission they could get a little food and a warm place for the night. 'Abdu'l-Bahá had heard about these men, and He wanted to see them with His own eyes.

So He went, after all His other work was finished. About four hundred men had gathered there that night. The room was crowded and dim, lit only by bare light bulbs, and it smelled of coal smoke and of men who had no way to wash. It was not a fine room at all. But 'Abdu'l-Bahá walked right in.

He spoke to them — and here is the wonderful part. He did not speak to them as if they were beneath Him. He called them His brothers. That was the very same word He used for the grandest, most important people He met anywhere on His whole journey. To Him, these tired, poor men were just as precious. He told them that every soul is equal before God, and that being poor could never take away a single person's worth, and that God watches over the poor with a special, tender love.

Then 'Abdu'l-Bahá did something none of them expected.

He had filled His pockets with silver coins. He went and stood at the door, and He asked all four hundred men to walk past Him, one at a time. And as each man came by, 'Abdu'l-Bahá pressed a coin right into the palm of his hand — not tossing it, not handing it from far away, but placing it gently into each hand Himself. And to every single man, He spoke a word. Sometimes it was a blessing. Sometimes He asked the man where he slept at night. Sometimes He simply said the man's own name back to him, so he would know he had been seen.

Four hundred men is a very long line. It took more than a whole hour for all of them to pass by. And the whole time — the entire hour — 'Abdu'l-Bahá stood at that door. He never once sat down to rest. When the very last man had gone by, He blessed the whole room, and He asked that the doors be opened so the cool night air could come inside.

It was nearly midnight when 'Abdu'l-Bahá finally returned to His hotel. He was very tired. But as the carriage rolled along, He spoke softly and warmly — not about how tired He was, but about the great kindness He had seen shining in those weary faces.

'Abdu'l-Bahá had come all the way to America to teach people that everyone in the whole world belongs to one human family. He did not only say it with words. On a cold, dim night, He showed it — one coin, one kind word, one brother at a time.

This is a retelling for children. For the fuller account, see "Bread for the Bowery: 'Abdu'l-Bahá's Visit to the Poor of New York".

Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání, M.. (1998). *Mahmúd's Diary: The Diary of Mírzá Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání*. George Ronald.