The morning air buzzed with the chatter of temple-goers and the clang of coins being dropped into brass offering boxes. I sat on the stone bench near the women’s court, balancing two baskets of figs I hoped to sell before midday. Business was slow—but I didn’t mind. I liked watching people. That day, the Temple was especially full. Word had spread that Jesus of Nazareth was nearby, and even the priests were keeping an eye on Him.
My uncle always told me, “Watch how people give and you’ll see their heart.” I thought I knew what he meant—until I saw her.
She was older, shorter than most, her robes patched and faded from weather and wear. She moved slowly, with a limp in her right leg, and clutched a cloth tied at her waist. No one noticed her. They were too busy watching the scribes—religious teachers—drop heavy bags into the offering chests. Some even made a show of it, reaching high so the coins clattered loud as they tumbled in.
Wealth, power… that’s what people respected in Jerusalem. Especially under Roman rule. We weren’t free. Every coin we earned, most of it went to Rome or to Temple taxes. Still, the powerful lived like kings while families like mine skipped dinner once or twice a week.
But this woman—thin and quiet—stopped at one of the smaller offering boxes, tucked between pillars. She looked inside her cloth and counted something with her fingers. Then, with the gentlest movement, she dropped in two tiny coins.
Two.
They made the softest clink. I almost missed it.
I don’t know why it moved me so much—maybe it was the way she bowed her head before she gave… or how she stood there quietly afterward, like she was holding onto something invisible but strong.
That’s when I noticed Jesus was watching her too.
He sat across from me, surrounded by His followers and a few curious generals of the law. I expected Him to point out one of the wealthy men.
Instead, He called out, loud enough for all of us to hear.
“Do you see that widow?” He asked. Heads turned.
“She gave more than anyone today.”
A few people laughed in disbelief. We’d all seen her pitiful offering.
“She gave all she had to live on,” Jesus continued, locking eyes with a scribe who’d just been boasting about his latest donation. “The others gave out of their riches. But she gave out of her need.”
I stared at Him.
All she had to live on…?
Had I seen that right? Just two lepta—worth less than a crumb of bread. That was everything?
Suddenly, I understood.
It wasn’t the size of the gift that mattered. It was the size of her trust.
She believed God would provide, even if she had nothing left. And for that—He honored her, in front of everyone.
She gave two coins. Lost her last meal. And won the praise of Heaven.
I looked down at the figs in my basket… and I knew I could spare one.
That day, I didn’t just see generosity. I saw faith—real, quiet, trembling faith that trusted obedience would be enough.
It still makes me tremble.
Because if she dared to give everything with only two coins in her hand, I can surely learn to give—without fear—in mine.
The morning air buzzed with the chatter of temple-goers and the clang of coins being dropped into brass offering boxes. I sat on the stone bench near the women’s court, balancing two baskets of figs I hoped to sell before midday. Business was slow—but I didn’t mind. I liked watching people. That day, the Temple was especially full. Word had spread that Jesus of Nazareth was nearby, and even the priests were keeping an eye on Him.
My uncle always told me, “Watch how people give and you’ll see their heart.” I thought I knew what he meant—until I saw her.
She was older, shorter than most, her robes patched and faded from weather and wear. She moved slowly, with a limp in her right leg, and clutched a cloth tied at her waist. No one noticed her. They were too busy watching the scribes—religious teachers—drop heavy bags into the offering chests. Some even made a show of it, reaching high so the coins clattered loud as they tumbled in.
Wealth, power… that’s what people respected in Jerusalem. Especially under Roman rule. We weren’t free. Every coin we earned, most of it went to Rome or to Temple taxes. Still, the powerful lived like kings while families like mine skipped dinner once or twice a week.
But this woman—thin and quiet—stopped at one of the smaller offering boxes, tucked between pillars. She looked inside her cloth and counted something with her fingers. Then, with the gentlest movement, she dropped in two tiny coins.
Two.
They made the softest clink. I almost missed it.
I don’t know why it moved me so much—maybe it was the way she bowed her head before she gave… or how she stood there quietly afterward, like she was holding onto something invisible but strong.
That’s when I noticed Jesus was watching her too.
He sat across from me, surrounded by His followers and a few curious generals of the law. I expected Him to point out one of the wealthy men.
Instead, He called out, loud enough for all of us to hear.
“Do you see that widow?” He asked. Heads turned.
“She gave more than anyone today.”
A few people laughed in disbelief. We’d all seen her pitiful offering.
“She gave all she had to live on,” Jesus continued, locking eyes with a scribe who’d just been boasting about his latest donation. “The others gave out of their riches. But she gave out of her need.”
I stared at Him.
All she had to live on…?
Had I seen that right? Just two lepta—worth less than a crumb of bread. That was everything?
Suddenly, I understood.
It wasn’t the size of the gift that mattered. It was the size of her trust.
She believed God would provide, even if she had nothing left. And for that—He honored her, in front of everyone.
She gave two coins. Lost her last meal. And won the praise of Heaven.
I looked down at the figs in my basket… and I knew I could spare one.
That day, I didn’t just see generosity. I saw faith—real, quiet, trembling faith that trusted obedience would be enough.
It still makes me tremble.
Because if she dared to give everything with only two coins in her hand, I can surely learn to give—without fear—in mine.
