When the ushers in the church I attended last week counted the money in the offering plate, they found something they didn鈥檛 expect. I don鈥檛 know what, but I know they didn鈥檛 expect it. I also think they likely had a good laugh at me behind my back.
I understand. Really.
The Preacher and I have always made it a practice to give God back a portion of our income. We do this with gratitude and joy, contributing also to the work of the churches we attend. We鈥檝e found blessing in that.
Giving to others, Jesus said, should be done quietly, without seeking public praise, lest we become motivated by the esteem of others rather than the needs of others. 鈥淒on鈥檛 let your right hand know what your left hand is doing,鈥� he said, metaphorically emphasizing the importance of humility in our donations, and indicating that God rewards those who practice generosity.
But I don鈥檛 think Jesus meant we shouldn鈥檛 involve our brains. I made that mistake last Sunday, but I didn鈥檛 know it until I left work the next day.
That Monday, just after four, I shrugged on my coat and out of habit, reached into my pocket. Finding a folded slip of paper, I pulled it out for a better look, hoping. Until that cool morning, I hadn鈥檛 worn the coat since last spring. I鈥檝e forgotten folded bills in coat pockets before. A ten. A five. Even a hundred once.
It took a moment to grasp what I saw. I gaped, then groaned. I held in my hand the cheque I鈥檇 intended for the church鈥檚 offering plate last Sunday. 聽
How in the world? My mind scrambled, mentally retracing that morning. I鈥檇 made out the cheque before leaving home. Rather than lose it in my purse, I鈥檇 put it in my coat pocket for easy removal.
At church, I removed my coat and hung it in the coat rack. But during the first congregational song I remembered that I鈥檇 forgotten (!) my offering.聽 Slipping from my pew, I walked back to the vestibule, found my coat, put my hand in to the pocket and pulled out the folded paper. Without looking down, I slipped it into a contribution envelope on which I鈥檇 already written our name, the amount of the cheque and its designation: Missions.
Back in my pew, when the collection plate reached me, in went the envelope. I never gave it another thought 鈥� until the next day when I realized my mistake. Good grief, I thought. What did I stick in that envelope? A gas receipt? A note from one of the grandbeans? A grocery list? A library slip? Worse 鈥� did the counters wonder if I鈥檝e gone senile? I鈥檓 afraid to ask. So far, no one has contacted me, so perhaps they are too.
Next week I鈥檒l rescue the reputation of my mind. Meanwhile, in a world with so many reasons to frown, one unexpected grin at my expense won鈥檛 hurt.
