I had never seen her before. The widow.
I was just a boy, sweeping the marketplace while my father bartered for barley. The sun was hot, and the sounds of clinking coins and wheeled carts filled the air. But when the widow approached the merchant’s stall, everything seemed to fall silent.
She wore a simple cloak, its edges tattered from wear, and she held a weaving basket, but it was clear it had seen better days. Her hands were calloused and rough, the hands of someone who worked hard for little in return. She approached the merchant and asked, as humbly as could be, to trade her basket for flour.
The merchant didn’t even look at her—he just laughed. “Your hands can’t feed you? Then you’ve earned nothing.”
I froze.
I had seen traders haggle, even cheat. I had seen beggars ignored or turned away. But this? This was something else. It felt as though the air itself had turned cold.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my mat, twisting the rough fabric beneath me, thinking of the widow and the merchant’s cruelty. I didn’t understand why such things happened.
I turned to my mother. “Does God care?” I asked her quietly, afraid of what the answer might be.
She paused, her hands stilling from the needlework she’d been doing. Her eyes met mine, warm but firm. “You know what the prophet said,” she replied softly.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Micah,” she said, setting the needle down and looking into my eyes. “He cried out to the people—‘He has told you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? Only to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.’”
Micah’s words stuck with me, but I didn’t fully understand. How could they be enough? How could justice and kindness make a difference in a world where people like that merchant held all the power?
The next day, the sun burned hotter, and the dust seemed to cling to the air like it was made of sorrow. That’s when I saw Lavi.
He was a boy just like me, but his tunic was torn, too small, and his feet were covered in dust from walking without shoes. His father had died, and I knew his mother could hardly find work. That afternoon, I saw him behind the well, sitting alone, his head buried in his hands.
I had a jar of water in my hands. It was cool, refreshing, and I could feel the weight of it, knowing I could drink it all myself. But I remembered Micah’s words. They echoed in my mind.
Instead of walking away, I walked toward him.
“Here,” I said, offering him the jar. “Drink first.”
He looked at me as if he didn’t believe I meant it, but I just stood there, watching him.
“Come,” I said. “I’ll carry it back to the house for you.”
He took the jar from me, and we walked together to my home, where my mother welcomed him and his mother in for a meal.
I watched my father that night. I saw something in his eyes—pride, yes, but also something softer, something that I couldn’t name.
The next week, my father spoke to the vineyard owner, urging him to hire Lavi’s mother. And he did. Not because of anything grand, but because of a simple act of kindness.
One small act doesn’t fix a broken world. But Micah never said we had to fix everything.
He said, “Do justice.”
He said, “Love kindness.”
And when I shared that jar of water, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I had done both.
I had never seen her before. The widow.
I was just a boy, sweeping the marketplace while my father bartered for barley. The sun was hot, and the sounds of clinking coins and wheeled carts filled the air. But when the widow approached the merchant’s stall, everything seemed to fall silent.
She wore a simple cloak, its edges tattered from wear, and she held a weaving basket, but it was clear it had seen better days. Her hands were calloused and rough, the hands of someone who worked hard for little in return. She approached the merchant and asked, as humbly as could be, to trade her basket for flour.
The merchant didn’t even look at her—he just laughed. “Your hands can’t feed you? Then you’ve earned nothing.”
I froze.
I had seen traders haggle, even cheat. I had seen beggars ignored or turned away. But this? This was something else. It felt as though the air itself had turned cold.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my mat, twisting the rough fabric beneath me, thinking of the widow and the merchant’s cruelty. I didn’t understand why such things happened.
I turned to my mother. “Does God care?” I asked her quietly, afraid of what the answer might be.
She paused, her hands stilling from the needlework she’d been doing. Her eyes met mine, warm but firm. “You know what the prophet said,” she replied softly.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Micah,” she said, setting the needle down and looking into my eyes. “He cried out to the people—‘He has told you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? Only to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.’”
Micah’s words stuck with me, but I didn’t fully understand. How could they be enough? How could justice and kindness make a difference in a world where people like that merchant held all the power?
The next day, the sun burned hotter, and the dust seemed to cling to the air like it was made of sorrow. That’s when I saw Lavi.
He was a boy just like me, but his tunic was torn, too small, and his feet were covered in dust from walking without shoes. His father had died, and I knew his mother could hardly find work. That afternoon, I saw him behind the well, sitting alone, his head buried in his hands.
I had a jar of water in my hands. It was cool, refreshing, and I could feel the weight of it, knowing I could drink it all myself. But I remembered Micah’s words. They echoed in my mind.
Instead of walking away, I walked toward him.
“Here,” I said, offering him the jar. “Drink first.”
He looked at me as if he didn’t believe I meant it, but I just stood there, watching him.
“Come,” I said. “I’ll carry it back to the house for you.”
He took the jar from me, and we walked together to my home, where my mother welcomed him and his mother in for a meal.
I watched my father that night. I saw something in his eyes—pride, yes, but also something softer, something that I couldn’t name.
The next week, my father spoke to the vineyard owner, urging him to hire Lavi’s mother. And he did. Not because of anything grand, but because of a simple act of kindness.
One small act doesn’t fix a broken world. But Micah never said we had to fix everything.
He said, “Do justice.”
He said, “Love kindness.”
And when I shared that jar of water, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I had done both.
