Another woman adds to the Holy Week pattern. An imaginative retelling of The Widow’s Mite, in which a woman makes her way to the temple on a busy day and reflects on her advancement in life. S
She walked steadily through the busy city streets. She knew her way around and avoided being shoved out of the way by earnest pilgrims who were looking out for family and friends, carrying luggage or buying food for the feast. She kept her head down when she passed yet another group of soldiers taking up more room than they needed to. Not that she was worried; she’d got used to being invisible. That’s what being older and widowed did for you. She’d also got used to making every penny she had work hard for her.
As she climbed up the hill to the temple, she couldn’t help but remember other Passovers, when, with her husband and children she almost ran, singing psalms I was glad when they said to me, “Let’s go to the temple of the Lord.” (from Psalm 122) and laughing with excitement.
That sort of happy excitement felt like a dimly remembered dream, but she anticipated the festival with a quiet certainty and under her breath muttered a different psalm Do not reject me when I am old; do not leave me when my strength is gone. Even though I am old and grey, do not leave me, O God. (from psalm 71).
When she arrived at the outer temple courts, she instinctively drew herself in. She was used to a barrage of men selling doves for sacrifice, and she had no intention of handing over her money in exchange for some poor creature doomed to die. Still, she was surprised by the quiet spaciousness in that court. Unusually in festival week, there was space to breathe and to pray.
She had heard rumours about a travelling rabbi from Nazareth who’d lost his temper with the temple traders and thrown them out. She’d heard other rumours about him too, about good teaching, feeding and healing and was surprised he’d been so angry. Still, if it meant there was more space for pilgrims that week, then that was good.
She walked on into the court of the women. That was as far as she was allowed to go, but it had what she wanted. She reached into her purse and found two small copper coins. She’d worked out that if she broke her fast later that day and accepted her neighbour’s invitation to share their Passover meal, she could afford to give them as her festival offering. They barely clinked when she threw them in the treasury box and she breathed a prayer that they would be turned into food for the poor.
Before she’d finished, she heard the murmur of a group of men walking past and caught the scent of expensive perfume. Then, she heard clearly one man’s voice and realised she was no longer invisible.
Jesus said: “I tell you the truth, this poor widow gave more than all the rich people. They gave only what they did not need. This woman is very poor, but she gave all she had to live on.”
She raised her head and saw that his hand was stretched towards her, and he was looking her in the eye. She knew that God had answered the prayer of the psalm and not rejected her.
This story is sometimes called the widow’s mite, but I wonder if we should rename it “The widow’s might!” She seems like a mighty strong character to me.
I wonder how she fits into the pattern of Holy Week. Certainly, she was an example to help Jesus challenge the establishment and ideas of greatness. What if there was something more? What if she gave him a fresh memory of goodness when he was surrounded by evil?
Go well towards Easter,
Mandy.
You can read this Bible story in Mark’s Gospel chapter 12, verses 41-44.
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A short story of a party, a mistake and a happy ending!
Brr, I shivered and walked quickly along the dark road towards home. The streetlights reflected fuzzily in the pothole puddles and the night air clung damply to my hair and cheeks. I tried to pull my coat more closely round me, but it was a struggle. It felt tighter, I must have eaten more over Christmas than I thought and then even more at the buffet that night. After all, the coat fitted perfectly when I left home.
It had been a good night at the village hall, where the Happy New Year banners promised everything that we could wish for in 2026. Friends and strangers bopped away together on the small, star strewn dancefloor to the skilled and cheerful music of a local three-piece band who understood their audience and played Motown, T Rex and Rolling Stones, so that we forgot the world news and our aches and pains while we relived our school discos!
While the musicians had a break, we headed for the food table, which, as I hinted earlier, was groaning under the weight of sandwiches, quiche, sausage rolls, crisps and cakes! None of us held back, after all, we were getting plenty of exercise that night!
When the dancing stars were switched off and the guitar and drums were being packed away, some of us lingered under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Our magical party room had turned back into a drab and functional space, but we were happy to catch up on gossip which the music drowned out.
When I finally made it to the cloak room, most people had gone. It didn’t take long to find my coat. It’s not an unusual one, made of navy-blue wool. You’re likely to see one or two on any walk around the village, but it does its job of keeping me warm and dry.
It wasn’t a long walk home, but the chill was making its way through my gloves so when I turned the final corner, I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. I felt something hard and round. I couldn’t remember what it was, so I took it out. By that time, I was walking up the drive to my front door, and the security light came on, so I could see that in my hand was a shiny grey torch. I pressed the switch and a bright, thin beam shone out, which was helpful for finding the key in my bag and unlocking the door.
Once inside, I held the torch and began to think. I felt the tightness of the coat stretched across my shoulders and with a sickening sensation wondered if somewhere in the night, a stranger was fumbling in the dark, searching for their torch in the pockets of a coat which was too big for them and only finding snotty tissues and sticky cough sweets.
My heart pounded, it was nearly half past eleven at night. What could I do?
I put my hands back into the coat pockets and felt a piece of paper. It was the corner of an envelope with a telephone number scrawled on it and the words cake recipe, don’t forget!
Was my twin coat wearer wanting a cake recipe or giving one away?
What would happen if I rang that number? The chances were that no one would answer. After all, they wouldn’t recognise the caller, and it was nearly midnight.
What to do? I couldn’t imagine simply hanging the coat up and taking myself to bed for a good night’s sleep and the worst that could happen was I’d get shouted at and told to go away.
I did hang up the coat and found a comfortable chair before I keyed in the number. Surprisingly, there was a quick response and more surprisingly, a familiar voice on the other end said hello Mandy, are you alright? What are you doing phoning at this time? Did you get back okay?
Oh, I said, is that Jane?
Yes, of course it is, Jane said, who else would be answering my phone?
I took in a deep breath. Well, erm, maybe whoever is wearing my coat – it’s not you, is it?
There was a pause. Mandy, said Jane, how much prosecco did you have? Shall we both put our kettles on; it sounds like this may take some time.
So, a cup of red bush tea later, with my shoes kicked off and a blanket around my knees, three of us laughed over a conference call. When Jane had made sense of my garbled story, she hung up and called both Kate and me. Kate had found her coat warm and comfy but was sorry she’d lost her torch and ashamed to find so much rubbish in her pockets! She was worried she’d lost Jane’s phone number because she’d promised to message her with the best fruit cake recipe in the world.
We’d all had a good time at the village hall party, and the late-night drama kept us laughing into the early hours. Finally, I got to bed and fell asleep looking forward to coffee and cake in the village café where coats, torch, tissues and sweets would be reunited with their rightful owners and a recipe for the best fruit cake in the world handed over.
In this story, any resemblance to the U3A Christmas party is entirely intentional!
Brrr, I shivered as the last rays of sun faintly lit up the hills surrounding our field. It was that cold, dark time between sun and moonlight, before the sky was lit up with stars and I could fall asleep counting them. I snuggled up to my little lamb. Her mother had died when she was born and none of the other sheep would adopt her, so she was given to me to look after. How happy am I about that? Little lambs need a lot more than milk to keep them alive and well. Without a mother to keep them close, warm and safe, they need a lot of cuddles and that’s the job I love best.
At night, when my abba and uncles take their turns guarding the sheep, I lay down in the tent between my amma and lamb and dream the night away. However, that night, it was just me and lamb. Things were so busy in the town that amma and my aunts took their own turns watching the field, cooking food and keeping the men company. There was no sleep for adults that night.
I said the town was busy, it was more like chaotic. The Romans, who I’ve been taught to hate from birth had demanded that everyone travel to their hometown to be counted. Talk about harassment and control! Of course, our town’s not big enough to take everybody in. There aren’t enough places to stay or food to eat, so of course our fields and our sheep are tempting and not too far away. We didn’t want anybody camping out with us and we definitely didn’t want hungry strangers stealing our sheep, so the adults stayed awake and lamb and I tried to sleep.
My brother Jake is older than me, but he’s not a man yet, though he was determined to stay up that night. Soon, I heard the sound of the pipe he was playing. It soothed the sheep who were as anxious as the rest of us.
There it was, the evening star, the brightest of them all. Soon, it was joined by thousands of others and I lay, looking out of the tent, watching the stars appear and listening to Jake’s music. I hoped for happy dreams and felt Lamb’s tiny heart beating rapidly while she slept.
I must have dropped asleep quickly, because soon I was dreaming of a loud voice saying Do not be afraid. I’m bringing you good news, joyful news. A saviour has been born. You’ll find him in town, asleep in a manger.
Strange words indeed, what an odd dream, but unlike a dream, it didn’t fly away. I heard other voices, men’s voices sounding shocked, confused. I woke up properly then and looked outside. Everything was bright so I could see the men lying flat on their faces and the women huddled near the tents. Jake was standing close by. He’d dropped his pipes and was looking up, so I followed his gaze.
The stars were three times as bright as usual and as I looked at them, they started to move. I wondered if I was still asleep and dreaming, but my eyes were wide awake and I saw the stars begin to dance, up and down and round and round, waving their arms. Arms? Yes, they had arms and feet and faces and wings and were so bright. Then, I heard the most beautiful sound. The sky was full of singing! Glory to God on high and on earth, peace to men!
Almost as soon as they began, they fell silent, the sky dimmed and we were left with familiar stars. A hush had fallen over our field, even the sheep stopped bleating and everything was still for a few moments.
Eventually, figures began to move in the dark. Lamb was trembling and I pulled her closer to me while I watched my abba get to his feet and gather in a group with my uncles. Jack picked up his fallen pipes, wiped the dirt from them and came to stand near me. Amma and my aunts held hands, whispered and waited.
Finally, the men and women came together. We’ve got to go! I heard the words, but who was going where at that time of night?
Suddenly, all was movement. Amma came over to our tent and grabbed Jake and me. Come on, quickly, we’ve got to go into town.
Into town? What about the sheep, what about the tents? We can’t leave everything with a town full of strangers.
Yes, we can, screeched amma, town is where we’re going. That’s where the baby is, amongst strangers and we’ve got to find him.
Well, I wasn’t going to leave lamb behind, so I picked her up and ran, holding amma’s hand, with Jake running ahead.
This was the strangest night. Abba hated going into town. His rough and ready ways were better suited to fields and townsfolk didn’t like or trust him. They needed him to provide sheep and lambs but looked down at him because he couldn’t keep himself clean and didn’t turn up to synagogue. And yet, there he was, abandoning his sheep and leading the way, rushing to find a baby. He’d seen plenty of babies!
The streets were busy, the marketplace was full and some people were settling down there for the night. There were some drunken calls after us What’s the hurry, shepherds? You’ve forgotten the sheep, but you still smell of them!
Round corners we scurried until we found a narrow street. We had a sense for animals and quickly found our way to a stable.
Uncles, aunts, brother, abba and amma all paused to catch their breath. I stroked lamb and wondered what would happen next.
Eventually, the adults nodded to each other and abba pushed open the stable door.
I had no idea what to expect, but I walked into the lamp lit shack, smelling the straw and the animals before I saw them. In a corner, sat a young woman who wasn’t much older than me. she looked tired, but she smiled at us. An older man stood by her and he nodded in welcome.
We crept closer until we saw what the angel had told us. There was a manger, a feeding trough, and inside was a baby. The baby was swaddled tightly, just like me and Jake had been when we were born.
Photo by Jessica Lewis ud83eudd8b thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
What happened next was the most surprising of all. My big, strong, abba who was used to seeing off wild animals and the odd Roman soldier, my abba, who would sooner curse or hit a man rather than kneel before him, fell to his knees in the filthy straw and bowed his head before this baby.
The baby opened his eyes then. He couldn’t wave his arms and legs because of the swaddling clothes, but he turned his head. His mother reached down and picked him up and my abba never took his eyes away while she rocked her baby in her arms.
Lamb started to bleat and the young mother smiled. Then, would you believe it, she looked at me and said shall we swap? I’ll hold your little lamb, and you can hold mine.
I kissed lamb and then passed her over. I took the tiny baby in my arms and I kissed him too. A lullaby wafted around the room. Jake was playing his pipes and I rocked the baby. His mother said His name is Jesus.
I kissed Jesus again and we exchanged lamb for baby. I looked around and saw tears falling down amma’s face. I hugged lamb and stroked her while a hush fell over us all. Then my adults looked at each other and nodded again. It was time to go.
Look after your little lamb and I’ll look after mine for you and for all of us said the mother.
Now we’re in the last full week of Advent and we’re approaching the winter solstice, I’m posting a few imaginative thoughts based on the story of Jesus’ birth. This week in 2025 holds dreadful news. New sadness and fear has entered the world. It’s into just such a world that some messengers speak.
This is a story of a young woman from a small village who was asked to do something great.
News and visitors are rare in our little town, hidden away in the Galilean Hills. Sometimes I complain about that, but I’m always told it’s for the best. Nobody takes much notice of us, so we can just get on with our lives. Still, I often wonder what’s over the horizon.
Roman soldiers are talked about but never seen round here. We’re not worth the effort of building their famous roads uphill to Nazareth. Sometimes I daydream about walking along the rough track that we call a road. Where will it lead?
My life plan was very straightforward and predictable, just like every other girl. I’m engaged to be married to a good man and I expected to live my life keeping house, cooking and cleaning, looking after our children and our parents until I can sit down with grandchildren on my knee. Well, that’s all changed since a surprise visitor arrived. As far as I know, he’s only been to see me.
It might have helped if he’d explained things to my parents first, but I doubt they’d have believed him. He told me he was an angel, a messenger direct from God. He told me I am very special and specially chosen by God to have his child, God’s child who will save us all. He listened when I told him it was impossible, but his eye twinkled when he reminded me this is God we’re talking about.
I know that God has promised wonderful things through the birth of a child, and of course everyone that’s ever done anything great started out in some woman’s womb, but this feels like more than that.
Of course it’s hard for any of us to take in. Suddenly it seems our hills can’t hide us or save us anymore, but I feel peaceful and strangely excited about it all.
My name’s Mary and I think I’m going to find out where our little track leads to.
Brrr! I shivered in the cold misty air, stretched my aching limbs and hauled myself away from the damp grass onto my feet. As well as cold and achy, I felt hungry and tapped my pockets, hoping for food. Fortunately, I heard the plasticky crackle of a sweet packet and pulled out my favourite, a bag of Liquorice Allsorts. Hmm, they weren’t too sticky and thankfully they were dry so with a sigh of relief I popped a square of deliciousness into my mouth. As the sugar dissolved into my system, I felt a sudden surge of energy and alertness which focused my mind and isolated my aches and pains. The throbbing pain in my head told me it needed more attention than my sore back and legs and I reached up to feel a swollen lump on my forehead. I bet that’ll look pretty for a few days I thought but then remembered there were more important things to consider. What had happened to me?
I was more shivery now and I took a few dizzy steps around where I’d been lying. My foot stumbled against something hard, and I looked down. There, still and damp amidst the long grass, lay a golf ball. I rubbed my head again and wondered if there was some connection between my sore forehead and the hard round object at my feet. What was obvious was that I had to get moving, I was feeling colder and stiffer, so I popped a solid lump of liquorice in my mouth, picked up the golf ball, dropped it into my pocket and walked forward. The sugar and the movement boosted my memory a little and I remembered that I’d decided to take a brisk walk across the golf course, which fortunately isn’t far from my home. Fresh air and exercise are great starts to the day, I’ve always thought, although now I wasn’t so sure.
I wasn’t even sure that I was walking in the right direction when a rush of air overhead made me look up to see two ducks flying purposefully ahead of me. I was glad when I heard the splash of them hitting water which was still out of sight, because I remembered the small pond which isn’t far from the clubhouse. Rounding a bend, I saw the pond, edged with willow, yellow flag irises and marsh marigolds. My groggy brain noted how well cared for it was and how proud golf club members are of their grounds. Mr and Mrs Mallard were happily swimming along, and I stopped to watch them as they upturned themselves to feed. It was lovely weather for ducks and these two were revelling in the cold and damp. The same couldn’t be said for me though and I shivered again. I had begun to sneeze, and my arms and legs were stiffening, so I bit into a coconut flavoured sweet and pushed on, more certain now that I was heading towards rest and refreshment.
The clubhouse came into view and thankfully the lights were on! I registered the non-members welcomesign, wiped my nose on my sleeve, rubbed my hand across my hair and pushed open the door. How good it was to be greeted by the warm smell of coffee and frying bacon. This was welcome to tired golfers and dazed walkers alike and my relief flooded out in tears.
Goodness me, what’s happened to you? The friendly faced woman behind the counter said. I’m not sure, I replied, I was taking a walk and I think I fell. Let me get you something, shall I phone an ambulance? You look terrible! she said. I smirked grimly to think again that my appearance was what mattered, but assured her I didn’t need an ambulance, just a sit down and a drink, but I didn’t have any money with me.
That’s when I started sneezing and shivering again. The kindly woman handed me a packet of tissues, told me to sit down while she got me some food and drink. Don’t worry about not having money this morning, she said, we’re human beings here, the robots haven’t taken over completely yet!
As I sat down, she brought me steaming, milky, sweet coffee and a bacon sandwich. That tasted even better than the liquorice allsorts and while my body absorbed the warm nourishment, I managed to focus on what I needed to do next. Checking my pockets, I was relieved to find my door key and amused to find my notebook and pen. I’d brought it out in case I came across anything worth noting down. Well, I’d certainly got something to write about now.
Well-fed and more relaxed, I looked about me. The clubroom held a comforting mix of fixture lists, impressive boards of past captains with names and dates, details of social events and jolly photographs. On the wall was a map of the world highlighting the major international golf courses. I was gazing at those continents and islands and ruefully thinking that maybe I shouldn’t attempt an around the world tour any time soon, when the door opened.
Brrr! The two men shivered as they came in, cold, damp and achy from the misty air, desperate for a hot breakfast. Good morning Linda, we’re really glad to see you, they greeted my saviour with the coffee pot, it was hard going this morning, it’s really cold and visibility’s not good. We could have done with head torches at one point. Nobody else is on the course and we thought about giving up. Still, we only lost one ball.
With a sigh, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the golf ball. Getting up and handing it to them I smiled and said I think I’ve found that ball of yours.
A slightly spooky story about grief, kindness and soup.
The bright A board poster barred Maggie’s path and stopped her in her tracks. She read the orange words “Super Duper Soup of the Day “above a picture of a steaming cauldron and raised her eyebrows in surprise. She didn’t remember seeing this small café before, though she thought she knew the High Street like the back of her hand. She couldn’t remember what used to be there, squeezed between Fantasy Nails and Spellbound and Sons, solicitors you can trust.
Suddenly her heart raced, and she gasped for breath. She was enveloped in soft warmth and looking down, she saw a black cat winding its way around her legs. Maggie and the cat caught each other’s eye for a second before the cat scampered away.
Dizzily, she looked again at the poster, then at the condensation-soaked café windows. ENTRANCE it said on the door. Welcome to Dreams Come True Delicatessen.
Maggie hadn’t been feeling hungry, and she hadn’t intended to eat out, but she found herself pushing open the door and walking inside to be wrapped around with warmth and aroma of – was it leeks or lentils, parsnips or potatoes, cabbage or cauliflower?
There was one person sat at a table by the door, wrapped up in a dark coat and hat, although it wasn’t cold outside and was positively balmy indoors. Even with their back turned towards her, Maggie could tell that they were writing.
A line of plain Formica topped tables led the way to the glass fronted counter which displayed a tempting array of cakes. Behind that stood a shiny black cauldron bubbling away and emitting that indistinct mix of aromas. By its side stood a tall thin woman. Her emerald green eyes were framed with orangey red hair, and she was dressed in black. Her fingers were long and thin as she spread them out in welcome. Her voice drew Maggie’s eyes away from her bright green nail polish.
“Erm, what is the soup of the day?” Maggie said, sniffing again the confusing mix of flavoursome scents.
“What would you like it to be?” the tall woman replied.
“Is there a choice?”
“Oh, there’s always a choice, you should know that by your age.”
Maggie wondered just how old she looked and regretted wearing her leggings and tee shirt. Had she even washed her face or combed her hair before coming out? For a fleeting moment, she wished she’d gone to Costa where sterile food comes plastic wrapped, eye contact is avoided, and conversation unwelcome.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a flash of black fur and again, green feline eyes met hers. The room spun around her, and she reached for the counter.
“Why don’t you sit down,” said the kindly voice of the tall woman who walked around the counter to take hold of Maggie’s arm.
“I’m alright,” said Maggie, “it was just a dizzy spell.
The woman led Maggie to a table, placed a glass of water in front of her and seated herself opposite. Maggie watched mesmerised as the bubbles in the water rose to the surface and burst.
“So, what sort of soup would you like?” The words broke into Maggie’s reverie, and she looked up into green eyes that were gazing at her.
“I don’t know,” Maggie said.
“Well, what did you want when you left home this morning?”
“I don’t know, I just wanted to leave, I guess.”
“Didn’t you have soup at home?”
“No, no soup, there’s nothing that I want there, just painful memories.
A hush came over the quiet café, the cauldron stopped bubbling, the stranger’s pen stopped scribbling, and the black cat stopped her pacing, one paw raised in the air.
The bubbles in the water ceased to dance as tears welled up in Maggie’s eyes and spilled onto the Formica.
With a sigh and a rustle of skirts, the tall kind woman was gone. In a moment, the cauldron bubbled back to life and in a trice, a steaming bowl of soup was placed before Maggie.
Deep down pain rose up from her insides and came out in a loud sob. Her tears got thicker and faster and when they fell into the thick broth it bubbled up and swirled around, steaming into her nostrils and awakening her long-forgotten appetite.
Beautiful, green tipped fingers held out a spoonful towards her.
Maggie took the spoon and sipped gingerly, then gulped it down and took some more.
The soup tasted of sunshine and teenage romance, of holding hands and a first kiss. It tasted of being held and words of love, promises to never part. It tasted of building a home, of hard work and happy exhaustion. It tasted of loving through good times and bad, through richer and poorer, in sickness and in health and it tasted of overwhelming grief which is part of love.
A gust of wind touched her cheek. The stranger had packed up their notebook and pen, pulled their hat more firmly around their ears and walked out into the street.
A pool of warmth flooded through her. The cat had leapt onto her lap, and she welcomed the life that it brought.
The kind woman returned to the counter and busied herself, ready for the next customer.
“How was your soup of the day?” she asked.
Maggie found a smile as she stood up. “It’s warmed me and woken me up, thank you.” When she stepped out of the door, the sun was shining. She turned and headed towards home.
Wandering Through The Land Of Nod. 