Coinage from Heaven

I’m six years old.

And like normal six-year-olds, I am fidgety, shifting my little body back and forth in a wooden church pew in a community called Plateau, which, by the way, most people mispronounce.

I’m clutching coins in my hands.

They’re mostly pennies, a few nickels, and some dimes. But, no quarters. I would have kept those.

A minute earlier, my mom had handed me the now tightly clutched coins in preparation for, “The Collection.”

This was not a particularly joyful occasion. Judging by the looks on peoples’ faces, I’d say it was more like a romantic breakup.

“Goodbye. I’ll miss you, little dollar. Write me!”

Then, the obligatory prayer ended and the men, dressed in compulsory grey suits and ties, began their menacing march down the aisles to the tune of Star Wars Imperial March (yes, I know Star Wars wasn’t released until years later, but it fits).

Some men walked to the back of the auditorium and others to the front. Next, they would pass the silver metal trays until they met close to the middle. Then they’d double-time it to a secret room and count the take!

By now, the coins were weighing heavily in my sweaty little hands.

Nervously, I watched the serious-faced men pass by our row.

Something didn’t feel right.

One of the men was named Paul and wore 1960s style black-framed (military BC) glasses. I remember liking him because of his obvious good taste in first names.

As the men passed our location, a sudden and horrible thought sent my six-year-old brain into high-anxiety overdrive: ‘what if they don’t stop at our row?’

‘And, what? Wait a minute! Why aren’t they stopping?’

‘What if they don’t pass the silver plate to us?’

These thoughts raced in and out of my small developing mind.

There was the real possibility that I’d be stuck with a handful of sweaty coins. I could not accept this change in plans (or in my hand).

As the column of collection soldiers passed, I stood to take action. But because I was six, no one noticed.

I took the handful of sweaty coins and threw them toward the collection trays.

No, really.

I just threw them in the air with the hope that they’d steer themselves to the collection plate.

Like hoping for three-point baskets from half-court, only, with 18 basketballs at the same moment.

Now, did the noise of the metal coins hitting a metal collection plate interrupt the quiet and sad occasion with approximately 400 attendees?

Yes.

Yes, it did.

Mr. Paul kneeled down and patiently helped me pick up the coins — one — by — one.

This seemed like a very long time. Because it was a very long time.

With the rebellious coins corralled, Mr. Paul continued on his way to the back to pass the collection plates the normal way — person to person whereupon one could rationally and methodically place their money into the collection plate without any fanfare or outward anxiety.

I should also mention one more person here during this exciting and learning event: My mom.

Yes, she is sitting right there beside me as the events unfolded. You may remember that it was she who started this whole adventure by giving me the coins in the first place.

But now…

With the sound of coins hitting metal and then splattering on the floor and all.

Perhaps she was regretting her actions.

Or maybe she was thinking that three kids should have been enough for any sane family.

I don’t know.

I didn’t ask.

But, I do remember her quickly repositioning herself 20 feet down the pew leaving me, in essence, a temporary orphan.

The excitement passed, church ended, and we drove home.

And surprisingly, I do not remember ever being handed loose coins again at any public assembly.