She walked into the seminary, a grade school-age boy’s hand held tightly in her own and a young teenager reluctantly following along. Peering over her shoulder, she gave the teen that look. You know the one I mean: the look that scientists tried to replicate when they created the laser.
“Sit! Watch your brother, I’ll be right back.”
As she walked into the office of the seminary president, the ache in her heart intensified. Not long ago her husband had been a student here. He had such a heart for the LORD. She had been so proud of him. Last year she had buried him. He had such a love for God’s Word. Why, LORD?
The secretary recognized her, and knowing her situation, gave her a sympathetic squeeze on the arm, “He can see you now.”
Looking up, he smiled. He knew the names of the seminary students, and this woman looked familiar, but he had never been good with the names of their wives and families, so he tried to cover: “Good to see you. How are things going for you?”
It took a while to get it out, what with choking up with grief and the anxiety and embarrassment over her situation. “As you know, sir, my husband was enrolled here. Two months ago he died,” her voice breaking again, it took a while to get it out, “Sir, he took out a loan to cover expenses for school and raising a family.”
“Sir, we, I, have no money. I’m a widow and I have two sons to raise.” Once again her voice broke and she stood there, shoulders shaking, her face in her hands, tears seeping thru her fingers and running down the backs of her hands. The man who gave my husband the loan, he’s demanding payment. Sir, I’ve got nothing! And he has offered, no, not offered, he has threatened to take my children, my boys, the only thing I have left of my husband, and let them, no, force them, to work for him to pay off the loan. Sir, is there something you can do to help us?”
Rubbing his chin, an idea entered his head, “I’m so sorry. Tell me, what do you have in the house?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! If it wasn’t for that tiny cruse of oil, my kitchen would be totally empty. We have nothing.” She had cried so much. And now she felt ashamed to be admitting her situation to this man.
His next words were weird.
“What do you want with all my empty pots?” Smiling at the neighbor lady who was dividing her attention between an obnoxious husband, a whiny mother-in-law, six children, and her bread which smelled like it was over-baked, the young widow replied, “I’m doing something for the seminary president.”
“Mom, you know this is crazy, don’t you?” Leave it to a teenager to say something that seems to pull you under.
“Lock the door, and then bring me a pot.” It was ridiculous! He said, ‘borrow lots and lots of pots, fill them with oil, sell the oil, pay off the loan, and use the rest to live on.’ I don’t see how things could get much worse, so I’ll pour that dab of oil into this first pot and stomp back into his office and throw it at him. Fill up all the pots and sell them! Hah!
It took FOR – EV – ER, thank you very much! “Son, this one is full, too. Put it with the others. Have your little brother bring me another one.”
“There aren’t any more, mom.”
Sighing, she got up and unlocked the door. Giving both boys that mom’s-laser-eye-look, she instructed, “Run down to the market and find out who wants to buy olive oil.”
As the boys darted off down the street, she stood there, shaking her head, looking at the narrow path she had left open thru the house. There were filled pots of virgin olive oil everywhere. As the smile crept onto her face, her heart went up to the one her husband had longed to serve, the LORD, God of Israel. The God who cares for His people. The one who cares for widows and orphans.