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Freely Given

By Kathy Parish

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Chapter 1

It was a Sunday morning service like most others. The closing hymn was over, and he made his way quietly down the aisle to the sanctuary entrance as one of the deacons prayed the benediction. Then the exodus began, some families hurrying to get out and on their way to their favorite Sunday restaurant, some preoccupied, wondering about the roast left in the slow cooker. Others lingered to visit with family and friends. Several of the church members were clustered around the slender redhead, introducing themselves, welcoming her to the services.
He shook hands, exchanging pleasantries at the door until she appeared. She was small, barely up to his shoulder in height, slender of build. He smelled the gentle fragrance of roses and soap, clean and fresh. Her hand clasp was firm for a woman, her demeanor gentle yet confident, her voice soft with a hint of southern drawl. He had noticed her during the song service. She had a clear, pure soprano voice, and sang the mix of traditional and praise hymns with familiarity and unassuming emotion, in her own world, not attending to those around her.
“Hello, Reverend Carter. I’m Katie Moore. I enjoyed your message.”
“Miss Moore,” he nodded, noting the absence of a wedding band on her ring finger. “We’re pleased to have you visit with us today. Are you new in town?” He was sure he would know her if she wasn’t a newcomer. A town of 1500 held few strange faces after five years as pastor of the largest nondenominational congregation in town.
“As a matter of fact, I am. I inherited the Crosby house a couple of blocks down and plan to make Four Corners my home.”
“Welcome,” he smiled. “I’ve been noticing the renovations there. I’ve enjoyed watching the place come alive. It’s looked kind of lonesome until now. Please let us know if we can be of any assistance as you’re getting settled. Someone will be bringing you a visitor’s packet in the next few days.”
“I’ll look forward to it. This seems like a nice little town. I think I’m going to like it here.”
As he watched her walk down the sidewalk and turn left onto Crosby Avenue, he pondered just how he might manage to be on the team that was to drop that packet off. His musings were interrupted by the deacon chairman and his wife whisking him off to Sunday dinner. And he was sure there would probably be an unmarried young lady, deemed an appropriate candidate for the position of preacher’s wife, also seated at the table. After all, Rita had died almost three years back, awaiting a heart transplant for which no donor could be found. The people of Four Corners viewed it as high time that their beloved preacher settled down and raised some preacher’s kids for them to love and spoil. After all, aren’t PK’s (preacher’s kids) generally the most-loved (though occasionally worst-behaved) kids in town?
#
Katie smiled to herself as she walked two blocks down Crosby Avenue. It seemed strange to live on a street named for her family, and in the most imposing structure in town, her new home, Crosby House. It stood shaded by massive oaks and maples, an example of antebellum architecture better suited to a plantation than a small southern town. Her great-great-grandparents, unlike their descendants, had had plenty of money, but fell a little short in good taste and blending with their surroundings. Fortunately, the structure was on a sizable lot, but it still dwarfed the residential properties that had been built around it, which were ranch-style, split-level, or, sometimes, more modest two-story colonial dwellings.
Fortunately, the unexpected gift from her father had allowed her to do a substantial renovation, opening the downstairs up into a light-filled great room and kitchen, with a study on the opposite side of the imposing stairway. The upstairs balcony became a great reading nook and sitting area, with a master bedroom suite to the left and a guest suite to the right. She grinned, thinking how appalled her father would be at how she spent the money.
Crosby House was, pre-renovation, a decaying and painful reminder of how far removed her father’s generation was from J.C. and Mattie Crosby. They were genteel southern aristocracy; many of their heirs, good ole southern redneck rowdy. But that was about to change—she was breaking the pattern. This house would give her a haven, a place to think, work, and write, a refuge, paid for, free and clear. And she still had plenty of money to live on until she could get something published, thanks to her windfall. And she would get something published—she was determined to succeed. The dream of her life was to be a writer, preferably one with novels on the New York Times bestseller list! Her grandparents, her father’s parents, had left her the house, but without the blessing of her dad’s unexpected largesse, she would never have been able to leave her job as an English professor at a small Christian college to pursue her dream.
She wished she had known her father’s family. Truth be told, the inheritance of this property had been a complete surprise. Her parents had divorced while she was a baby. Her “bringing up years” were under the care and tutelage of her mother, who, she was sorry to say, didn’t always “have it together”. During the school year she lived with her mother in the city. She had been a “latchkey” kid, getting herself ready for school and coming home to an empty apartment, and, occasionally, left alone until late at night, if her mom had a gentleman friend she was seeing. It was a lonely life, but she had learned the skills necessary to take care of herself, and, ultimately, her mother. She learned that if she wanted a clean apartment, she could make it happen, just like she could do laundry and shop for food and prepare simple meals. She became self-sufficient by the age of ten. And, just as she graduated from high school, she became her mother’s caregiver and nurse, caring for her throughout her few months of terminal illness. It had taken seven months for ovarian cancer to win the battle and take her mother’s life.
But, summer, that was a different life. She smiled, remembering the summers spent with her mother’s family in the country. For three months of each year she lived a simpler life, surrounded by the beauty of God’s creation, experiencing a home full of laughter and love and, most importantly, faith. It was in the summer of her twelfth year that she asked Jesus into her heart, kneeling by the bed in her grandparents’ house, Grandma Lou kneeling beside her. And her grandmother taught her the responsibility that went along with believing in Jesus and professing to be His follower. Responsibilities like spending time in Bible study and prayer. Like being a faithful member of a church family. Like living a life that gave evidence of His Spirit’s presence. Like the obligation, no, privilege, of giving a portion of the plenty He provided back to Him. Today was a step forward in meeting that obligation.












Chapter 2

Chad Carter closed his eyes, savoring the rare Sunday afternoon that he could pretend to watch a ballgame, fully intending to sneak in a Sunday afternoon nap. He loved the changes his twin sister Charlotte had made in his life since coming to live with him here in the parsonage. For example, replacing that ratty cloth recliner with this man-size leather beauty, and satisfying the church ladies that someone didn’t have to invite him for Sunday dinner every week.
He hated the circumstances that brought her here. She had escaped from an abusive marriage--the last attack had precipitated the loss of her unborn daughter in her sixth month of pregnancy. Blood loss and overwhelming grief had almost killed her. His jaw tightened as he remembered his anger and the almost irresistible urge to strike back at Phil, his sorry brother-in-law. He breathed a prayer, asking for forgiveness for the hatred that had filled him. Just then the sound of her humming softly as she straightened the kitchen after their noon meal reminded him that God was in control, and good things could come from bad. He had his sister, alive and healing from the deep hurts she had experienced.
The vibration of his cell phone stirred him. Glancing at caller ID, he noted it was George Rutledge, church treasurer, calling. “Hey, George, how’s it going?”
“Uh, Preacher, we’ve got a situation here.”
“A situation? What’re you talking about, George? Why aren’t you napping like everybody else on Sunday afternoon?”
“Chad, listen to me. I’m serious. You know I always count up Sunday morning offerings on Sunday afternoon?”
“Okay, George. You’re a fine servant of the Lord, I’ll give you that. Giving up your Sunday afternoon nap and all out of dedication…”
“Chad, cut it out,” George interrupted. “This is really, well, strange and, well, I don’t know exactly how to handle it, and…”
“George, just spit it out. What are you so discombobulated about?” Chad demanded.
“Preacher, there’s this check here—in an offering envelope…”
“Yeah, George, that’s how it’s usually done.”
“But, Preacher, it’s the amount on the check.”
“Just tell me, George, it’s gonna be time for evening service soon.”
“It’s a cashier’s check, Preacher, made out for a million dollars.”
#
Wow, that felt really good, Katie thought to herself. After three months attending Four Corners Christian, she felt comfortable that the congregation was truly trying to know and do God’s will. She was convinced that the tithe from her unexpected riches would be put to good use there. Last week she had officially joined herself to the congregation, walking forward, taking Pastor Chad’s hand, and formally requesting to become a member of the Four Corners church family. She had been welcomed warmly. And it felt good today to fulfill that obligation that had been worrying her since the money came to her.
She was to give a tenth back to God. That’s what it said in Malachi 3:10—“Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse.” Grandma Lou had taught her that verse. Louisa Abigail Babb had not had much in the way of material riches, but she always gave the tenth back to God. And today Katie had done it. She thought the cashier’s check probably was the best way. After all, a personal check for a million dollars might be looked upon as a prank—a cashier’s check let them know it was official. Yes, she thought she had handled it well, thoughtfully and practically and dutifully. She smiled, blissfully unaware of the furor her innocent act of faith had unleashed four blocks down at Four Corners Community Church.
#
Chad thought he had never heard so much energetic discussion in a hastily-called deacons’ meeting. This was far more exciting than dealing with heating and air that quit working in the middle of Sunday morning worship, or arguing about which new hymnal to buy or what color the binding should be. More exciting than deciding the color of the new carpet for the sanctuary or the Bible translation to choose for pew Bibles. The eight men seated around the oval table in the meeting room were all talking. No one was listening. He thought about quoting I Corinthians 14:40 to them. “But everything should be done in a fitting and orderly way.”
With a loud whistle, Chad brought them abruptly to order. For a brief moment silence reigned. “First,” he said calmly, “let us pray”. Every head bowed, eye closed, but feet were still jiggling and pencils tapping. He knelt. “Father God,” he began, “You know that this unexpected event has unsettled us. We ask for discernment, wisdom, patience, and guidance from your Spirit as we address this issue. May we be courteous in our discussion, calm in our spirits, and focused in our thinking. May we remember that all things are in your control and that we are your servants in this ministry. In Jesus name, Amen.”
A mixture of hearty and mumbled amens followed. “I now call this meeting to order.”
Immediately everyone started talking again. “Gentlemen, I called the meeting to order, not chaos. I know we’re usually pretty informal here, but at this time I expect you to not speak until you’re recognized by the chairperson—that’s me.” Chad solemnly made eye contact with each of the men, who either nodded or looked down at the table and snickered. They were acting like junior high students, he thought to himself. “I have asked Brother George, in his role as church treasurer, to meet with us this afternoon. Since he is both an attorney and an accountant, I felt he might have some special insight to share with us.”
The deacon body was a mixed group. Jerry Graham, the superintendent of schools in nearby Northfork, had a keen business mind and was generally moderate in his position on controversial items. Chad was grateful that he was the elected chairman of the deacons. Theodore Gaskin, the town banker, was much more vocal and aggressive in his approach, frequently seeking to be in control of the issue, no matter what it was, but particularly if it pertained to money. Tommy Jack Morgan was the chief of police. He had no formal training in law enforcement but, rather, had inherited the position, as he had his status as deacon. His father had occupied both offices before his death. Tommy Jack thoroughly enjoyed the sense of power associated with both roles. Michael Matthews, M.D., had a medical clinic that cared for the citizens of Four Corners from mother’s belly to grave.
Now, Charlie Franks was just a good ole country boy. His daddy had been a truck patch farmer. Charlie operated a quick-stop gas station/grocery on the highway. Colorado Stevens, on the other hand, raised cattle and was a retired rodeo cowboy. He and Mike Matthews shared the honor of being the only two unmarried deacons. Clay Stallings put out the weekly town newspaper and was open about his desire to keep the people of Four Corners fully informed about each and every issue that he could dig up dirt on. He said clean news was boring news. Last, but not least, was Billy Wayne Steel, auto mechanic, plumber, and electrician. He had rescued most folks in town from at least one emergency of transportation, stopped-up drain, or tripped breaker.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Chad began. “I know through word of mouth you have all heard what this meeting is about. However, for the minutes—thank you, Clay, for your good work there—let me review. This morning’s worship service offering included a cashier’s check in the amount of one million dollars.” The room erupted in questions and exclamations.
“Who?” “What is it designated for?”
“This is really big news!” “Can they really do that?”
“Sure, a cashier’s check is guaranteed funds available.”
“I want to meet this person and shake their hand.”
“I see that new family life center in our future.”
“Yippee!”
Chad held up a hand. “Whoa, just a minute. Now this is a matter for deliberation, and I know you all have questions, but, for the present, I feel it is appropriate to keep both the donation and its amount a confidential matter, for this board only. That means no mention in the paper, Clay. I also have decided to keep the name of the donor anonymous until we have clarified some of the circumstances--the whys and wherefores of this donation. I believe that, since George is already privy to that information, he, I, as pastor, and Jerry, as deacon chair, should visit with the donor. We can then report back to you, hopefully with more understanding of how this came about, and begin to understand what is God’s will in this matter.”
“Well, now,” Tommy Jack drawled, “I think there’s somebody else in this room who would know the donor. There’s only one bank in town. Teddy, you want to squeal on them? Who got the cashier’s check?” He smirked.
“The check was not drawn on a local bank,” Chad replied.
“And I object to the infringement upon the freedom of the press, saying this is not news for the paper. It is news, a breaking story, and I want to write it,” Clay asserted.
“Clay, all proceedings of this deacon body are confidential unless designated otherwise. You know we sometimes deal with very sensitive issues that our church family struggles with. We would be ineffective, insensitive, and ungodly if we didn’t have some discretion about what and when to share. We need more information before we make any kind of announcement to the church or community,” Chad stated in his firmest pastoral tone. “It behooves us to clarify if the donor has specific wishes as to the allocation of this donation to the church budget—whether it is to be placed in the general fund or in the building fund. We also should express appreciation for the gift. An individual able to give such a large gift may well prefer to remain anonymous. I have to, as your pastor, insist on no leaks of this information. I would be greatly disappointed and discouraged if that request were not honored. It might actually influence my willingness to continue as pastor of this congregation.” A stunned silence followed this statement. Chad had considered carefully whether to voice the veiled threat, but felt certain that some consequences for yielding to the temptation to gossip about this event was necessary. Looking each man in the eye, he asked, “Am I understood?”
Nods of agreement, some more grudging than others, followed.
“I think this meeting is adjourned. Let us close with prayer.”

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