He sat in his recliner, tennis shoes propped up on foot rest.
A drop of tobacco? food? stained his dress shirt, right side.
He is 90-something, post 90 the “something” doesn’t matter.
His voice is weak, his dentures loose, but his spirit is undimmed.
He talks of current events and Bible prophecy and asks our opinion on the state of the union.
And then, just as we are about to leave -
”I’m glad you came by. I have been meaning to send this to the church.”
He fumbles in pocket, in wallet.
”I’ve been collecting the cans - the aluminum cans - from our fellowships. They probably think I’m crazy around here because I ask for them to save them, set them aside. Anyway, I have been collecting them up and then I took them out to the recycling center…”
He produces bills - two one dollar bills and extends them.
”…I want to donate this to the children’s ministry.”
And just like that, I can see the widow and her two mites and I finally grasp the totality of her gift and the worship that propelled it.