When he looked up he saw some wealthy people putting their offerings into the treasury and he noticed a poor widow putting in two small coins.
He said, “I tell you truly, this poor widow put in more than all the rest; for those others have all made offerings from their surplus wealth, but she, from her poverty, has offered her whole livelihood.
— Luke 21:1-4
WAYS TO LISTEN
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A Humble Gift
Tiny hands flutter in a flurry of genuflection as we wade our way into the front pew. We’re early by at least 30 minutes, but all the rest have filled up with Mass regulars, eager to beat out the C&E Catholics for good seats. Christmas Mass in a dingy parish hall with paint chipped walls and creaky folding chairs just isn’t the same (although there is something to be said for the poignancy of being relegated to second class citizens because there is no room at the inn on Christmas). I breathe deeply, as though I can draw enough oxygen to soothe my nerves for the long liturgy ahead.
We are not front pew people.
And yet, by some Christmas miracle, the liturgy progresses unpunctuated by the shrill cries of my small and squirmy squad of children. I am startled to realize that I am not only hearing the homily but comprehending it. We’ve made it through the first half of Mass with no whining, toy-dropping, or sibling beating.
I am floored; for what may be the first time in a decade of motherhood, mine is the family with the adorably adorned and impossibly well-behaved children. They snuggle contentedly and doodle quietly—and not on the pages of the hymnal. Everyone’s hair is neatly combed, and not one is missing a shoe.
I raise my eyes to our Lord on the altar as the priest lifts high the host following consecration. I survey my angelic brood and internally beckon our newborn King to do the same. “See what I have brought you?” I am eager for Him to notice, as proud as the little drummer boy beating my own parum pa pum pum as my heart flutters with satisfaction at the sweet display they make.
But one beat after I offer them up to Him, He allows me to see myself through His eyes. The matching buffalo check and absence of bickering are not the glories that I think they are. They are not prizes for Him, but for me. I am perhaps reaping the fruits of the hard-won virtues and skills it has taken me a decade to acquire (my scatterbrained creative bend renders me a slow learner of the basics).
As the King of Glory lays a poor, helpless babe in an animal trough, He shows me that my shiny offering at this Christmas Mass is no better than all those Sunday Masses peppered with petty squabbles, mussed hair, and missing shoes. All those Sundays I spent shushing babies and chasing toddlers and recovering stray crayons from under the pews, those Sundays I limped out of the church feeling as battered and bruised as if a freight train had pummeled my body – instead of my children thrashing my ego – those were the Sundays when I truly gave from my poverty. One after the other, I strung my humiliations around me like rosary beads; each was hard and unyielding and tiny, and it was all I could do to clutch the stones and utter the words.
Like the widow’s last two coins, my King prized my pitiful offering, not with the scorn I assigned my own efforts, but with eyes wise to see that I gave all I had.
Books: Mama Prays Devotional | Reclaiming Motherhood from a Culture Gone Mad
Website: www.mamaprays.com
Connect: samantha@mamaprays.com
Podcast: Mama Prays
Lovely reflection, Samantha! Even after 20 plus years of marriage and parenting, we also are (still) not front pew people. Our girls are older now, but I remember the struggles of Sunday Mass with babies and toddlers, and do we ever have stories… 😊
Gorgeous. Thank you so much for this, Samantha!