A Widow's Mite

Another Sunday morning. Another church visitation. Another opportunity to share the vision of ECWA Camp Youth Alive, make awareness for this years camp, and petition for financial support from both the church and individuals to help make the ministry more locally sustainable. And another morning spent on a less-than-erognomically shapped wooden pew, attempting to glean what I could from the Hausa sermon. Don't get me wrong, I fully believe in this aspect of the ministry...its just that I've been to a different church every Sunday since February, often sitting through two 2-hr long services...and my schpill has lost some of its vigor. Out of all the congregations we've spoken too, a very small percentage have come through in collecting an offering to help the ministry offset registration costs for camp. So sitting there Sunday morning, i suppose you could say my optimism wasn't spilling over the brim. After 1.5 hrs into the service, towards the end of the announcement time, my colleague and I were asked to come forward to give our brief awareness (during our pre-service meeting with the pastor, he emphasized how he'd give us just 2 minutes). I did my part in greeting the congregation and attempting to butter them up with my Hausa before my colleague did the dirty work. Mission accomplished, we settle into our seats for the rest of the service.
Much to my surprise, the associate pastor decided that he would add an offering for ECYA to the other ones (making a total of 5, I believe) to be collected that morning. In these churches, offering time is the liveliest part of the service with upbeat music being played and everyone filing out in rows, then dancing down the aisle to drop their money in the baskets, rubber tubs, wooden crates, or other large containers. As I stood clapping and rhythmically swaying side-to-side, I saw something I don't think I'll ever forget. Slowly, deliberately, this one old kaka made her way towards the offering basket. I had seen her come into the building about 45 mins after the service had begun. Completely bent-over with her torso parallel to the floor, hands clasping her walking stick, she had shuffled in. I had watched her take a full minute to maneuver the 1 step near her seat, and wondered how long it had taken her just to get showered and dressed that morning. Now, with steadfast resolve she struggled to cover the 10 yards to the offering basket. As she shuffled, my eyes filled with tears, my heart filled with gratitude, and my apathy got a swift kick to the curb by this humble picture. That 5 Naira note she dropped into our basket was out-valued only by the sacrifice of her journey to give it. Luke 21:1-4 took on flesh, bones, and an african wrapper.

When she finally returned to her seat, I saw relief sweep over her face, and I let out the breath, I didn't realize I had been holding, with my own sigh of relief. Slightly I thanked the Lord for this blessed woman and her sacrifice. When the service finished and the church secretary handed us the bundle of money from the offering I looked at one of the crumpled 5 naira notes and knew I was holding a treasure. It won't pay for a camper scholarship or even a cup of tea, but it payed for this missionary to be humbled.

Just then he looked up and saw the rich people dropping offerings in the collection plate. Then he saw a poor widow put in two pennies. He said, "The plain truth is that this widow has given by far the largest offering today. All these others made offerings that they'll never miss; she gave extravagantly what she couldn't afford—she gave her all!" ~Luke 21:1-4, The Message