Copper Coins
The
man who approached my table was shoeless,
shirt full of holes—
Unclean, unsteady, around his waist
he’d wrapped a towel.
I kindly gave the juice for which his
outstretched hand had asked
I watched as he drained the sweetness to
the end.
I wondered about his life—
What steps had brought him to this place?
Was it three strikes from birth?
Or choices that he’d made?
I wondered where he’d go from
here—
How did he plan his days?
Or was it whatever came his way?Then his eyes looked right into
my own
“Is there more juice?” he
simply said.
My heart ached for I’d been told
One cup is all each person gets.
But this man was among
the worst I’d see all the day
So I reached for his cup to drain the
pitcher away
But his eyes had followed down the line
where mine had led
And he carefully set down the cup that he
had held—
“No thanks,”
he smiled and gently said.
“Save that for someone who
hasn’t had any yet.”
I couldn’t help
but think of the story Jesus told
About a widow with two coins who gave
more than gold.
That day I left the shelter, humbled by
the man
Of whom Jesus spoke two thousand years
before.
—Lisa Weaver,
Madison, Wisconsin, is author of Praying
with Our Feet (Herald Press). Note:
This scene rolled around in Weaver’s
head for fifteen years before it found
its way onto paper. This incident in a
soup kitchen occurred while she was on a
three-week Mennonite Youth Venture
assignment during high school. This piece
can also be sung, as a melody wove itself
into the text during the writing process.
(Scripture reference: Mark 12:41-44)
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