The Widow’s Hands

Once I watched a widow’s hands weave the Sunday service flowers. Her hands were wise as they wove–straightening stems, considering colors. Her hands were stained from this service—remembering Jesus’ hands stained from gripping Calvary’s cross. Her hands ached after her work—and as she did every Friday, she placed her sacrifice on Sunday’s altar.

Perhaps the parishioners will think the arrangement is lovely; perhaps they will take a moment to see. Perhaps they will not notice the work of the widow in the flurry of Sunday— perhaps they will pass by without a moment’s glance. Perhaps one day the flowers will be removed from the sanctuary in the name of progress or aesthetics or for any other reason: but God still sees. God still smiles on her quiet flowers, her steady service, her devoted heart, her sacrificial offering. 

What the congregation might not know, though, is that the woman who arranged the flowers promised God that as she was dying– if she were to be well again– that she would offer those flowers to Him every week. What they might not know is that– in churches everywhere–in places everywhere– there are those unnoticed, unknown– those working in quiet corners, draining their reserves, offering their hearts and their hands and their minds for a greater purpose instead of personal gain. What I do know is this: that the overlooked on earth is seen— is cherished– by the Lord.

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