I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
Man Saves Pennies For 45 Years and Rakes In a Fortune
He entered the bank while a dolly followed in his wake. Everyone looked at him at once when the sound of the coins was heard.
The coin master, Otha Anders, served as a supervisor for the Jackson School Board. He was the one to whom suspended children were sent, and they grew to love him.
Anders’s spouse and children were by his side throughout, but he had a somewhat dubious interest.
Something that began as a fun project developed into a passion, almost like an obsession.
Anders thinks that God is teaching him to be thankful with every penny he finds. He nearly always found a penny on the days he didn’t pray. He felt that was how God was directing him to express his gratitude.
Anders was a man of faith, thus he said prayers on the penny when most people would just wish for anything.
“I came to believe that finding a misplaced or dropped penny served as an extra divine prompt to always express gratitude,” Anders stated to USA Today.”There have been days when I have neglected to pray, and almost without fail, a misplaced or dropped penny has appeared to remind me.”
He kept them in five-gallon plastic water jugs for forty-five years. He surmised that he had hundreds of thousands of dollars stashed away, but he would soon find out.
The staff members had a great day trying something new when they carried the gallons to the bank. They used an ax and hammer to chop the pennies out of the water bottles. They had a number after five hours of chopping and counting on the coin counter.
Anders had saved $5,136.14 in pennies over the course of 45 years! That comes to roughly 114.4$ annually. In forty-five years, who would have imagined that a pastime of collecting pennies might result in a “old car”?
Anders, however, used his money to pay off a recent dental bill.
He was glad to put the money toward a worthwhile purchase. He used the remaining cash to support a family vacation and church donations.
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