A particular TV ad shows coins tucked here and there. Gather them for some charitable purposes were the appeal.
Every once in a while we see coins lying on the street. A few are still shiny, but many are defaced by repeated trampling. Most are five and ten centavos, which the majority no longer values. “What can you buy with them?” some would even scornfully ask.
There are very few twenty-fives. People, too dignified to stoop down and pick them up, pass them by.
It’s rare to see a one-peso coin, but that, too, is often ignored for the same reason.
My husband laugh when I tell him I have picked up some coins from the street. Yes, I always retrieve them – even the lowliest one centavo! And I have my reasons for doing so.
It’s more than my being a numismatist, a hobby I took up after my father. It’s greater than the fascination of coins. It’s also beyond mere agreeing to the “Respect the Centavo” campaign that the government had promoted a long, long time ago.
Each time I pick up a coin, I am reminded of what God thinks of me as shown by what He had done to me.
No matter how old and battered a coin, for so long as it is still recognizable, it can still be used for its intended purpose. I have used those coins as part of my payment of electric, phone, water, and grocery bills. Even in their marred conditions, their face value remains the same – a five centavo is still accepted as five. They only need to be used to be useful.
And that’s what I am. Sin-scarred, lying lost on the dirty street of worldliness, often trodden and rejected as worthless. There are “unworthy” kids, young adults, and even old folk out there. Out of circulation, they are useless unless given another chance. Their value is not lost; they only need to be put to use once more.
