He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight.
A mop of brown hair, freckles across his nose, and a handful of coins jingling in his palm as he stepped up to the counter.
“Ma’am,” he asked shyly, “how much is a scoop of vanilla ice cream?”
The waitress smiled. “Fifty cents.”
He nodded and counted again, the way kids do — slow and serious.
“And how much for the kind with sprinkles?”
“Sixty cents,” she said.
He looked at the coins once more, then smiled. “Just plain vanilla, please.”
When the dish arrived, he ate it happily, one careful spoon at a time.
When he was finished, he placed two small coins on the table — a nickel and a dime — and slipped out the door.
The waitress came to clear the dishes and saw the little tip.
Her eyes stung. He could have bought the sprinkles.
Instead, he chose gratitude.
That’s love in miniature — not the loud, showy kind that asks for applause, but the quiet kind that chooses to give even when no one’s looking.
It’s the love Jesus meant when He said, “Be perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect.”
Not flawless — whole.
Not proud — kind.
Not polished — pure.