Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a few cents. Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.”
Mark 12: 41-44, New International Version
Nothing.
Cupboards— bare. Shelves— bare. Closet— does that moth-eaten mantle count? Bedroom to the right— empty. Arms— empty.
Soul— empty.
But there was a time when they were full. A time when she didn’t have to go to bed hungry (and if she did, she went to bed smiling anyway). A time when she still had someone to sing to sleep. A time when she could get flour from the shelf and bake. A time when she was happy.
A time so long ago.
She liked to remember it.
She remembered the sunny days— drawing water from the nearby well, sweeping the floors, and sewing garments. She remembered the rainy days— staying inside, helping him sleep through thunder, and speaking to... She remembered who she did everything for.
She remembered that both of them were sleeping, discarded in the outskirts of their little town. It wasn’t her who sung them to sleep that night. It was death.
Then, she wept.
Sunny days became storms. Monstrous thunder became jeering laughter. Familiar, smiling faces became those of sneering strangers.
No matter.
Everything seemed to pass the widow’s wrinkled, half-closed eyes the same way: Everything without shine, everything without luster.
The woman yawned a shaky yawn, pulled her papery shawl tighter around her shoulders. She cried herself to sleep like many other nights before.
The next day, the widow woke up to the sun on her face. In the past, the morning rays that greeted her were always welcome. They were a reason to smile. In the past, they reminded her that it was another day, another blessing. But was another day truly a blessing? What was the sun to her now? After all, it no longer shone on the people she loved.
Her arms were heavy. Her legs were heavy. Her head was heavy after not eating anything for the longest time. She turned to her side, cuddling up into empty space and gripping nothing at all. She buried her head in the corner, hiding from the sun.
She didn’t know how, but somehow she found herself sitting up, slinging her empty sack over her shoulder, and leaving the emptiness of the house behind her.
If only she could leave the emptiness inside of her just as easily.
She passed by houses nearly identical to hers: brick and stone but not as empty. She could hear a child’s laughter in one of them but remembered another’s. One that sounded like the clatter of fallen pots and pans on the ground; something others may find annoying, but it was music to her ears.
Clang!
The sound of a fallen pan brought her back to her senses, back from the past, back to that wretched house. That should have been my house. That should have been my child laughing. The widow chided herself: pretending was no use.
She continued walking across the noisy streets, the harsh stones on the road scratching her bare feet. Though, scratched feet meant nothing if she could somehow manage to get a piece of bread.
But was a piece of bread worth anything if there was no one to continue living for?
The widow approached the Temple with no more enthusiasm than a child doing chores. Her soft, padded footsteps drowned beneath the vendors’ yells and the people’s chattering. She plopped down on the floor with all her belongings. What was she doing there? Hoping to see tomorrow’s sunshine? It was nothing but poisonous rays that would set her on fire if she dared enjoy it.
People passed by. The widow saw nothing but their sandal-clad feet – blurring as they marched in front of her. They were all the same to her, the big group of “people who didn’t matter”.
But amid this big ocean of “people who didn’t matter,” something twinkled. The first ray of light she ever saw in years. They clattered with their shining song. She watched them bounce up and down again, twirling and dancing at her feet. When they finally stopped, so did the woman’s heart.
Impossible. How—?
The fear of other people kicking these two treasures away came flooding to her, and she snatched the shiny things from the ground.
Two copper coins. Two beautiful copper coins. Worthless to some, but gold to her. Was there anything more beautiful?
Yes, and they were dead. So what were two coins to her? Food for tomorrow? What was tomorrow to her?
It was a chance, another chance to survive, and maybe make their deaths worth it. They gave her a chance and it was up to her to take it.
She looked up, looking for the source of the coins, but the flowing crowds blurred before her eyes. Were these coins dropped by accident? Was it stealing if she took it?
A voice deep in her gut told her it wasn’t. That she could keep it. That she should buy a bit of bread. Or maybe she could work until she has enough money for a new scarf. Or maybe she could at least put up a table of memories for those long gone, or buy the wooden toy he always wanted but never got to touch . . .
A strange sensation interrupted her thoughts, and she was pulled to her feet. She walked to the Temple’s offering, the box with money for the poor. She stood in front of the collection unmoving.
The two coins in her bony hands were everything. They could save her life. They could allow her to go to bed with a little more than nothing in her stomach. They could let her stay a bit warmer than she’d be with her worn, moth-eaten blanket. They could coat her wounded feet and protect them from sharp rocks strewn on her home’s floors.
She dropped one copper coin after another.
Clink, clink.
And she was left with nothing once more. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel empty.
Comments