This week I found myself standing in Braum’s buying gift cards for foster families from our church. As I stood there, I suddenly found myself laughing at a memory from more than thirty years ago.

When I was a little girl, I moved to a very small town in Texas called Alvarado. It was the kind of town where kids could walk pretty much anywhere. I often walked to a local gas station, and after a few visits it was where I met two girls who became my friends, Paula & Alexis.  No matter where I moved to my friends were always anchored in that little town.

Paula’s great grandmother, Natalie, was one of those people whose kindness leaves fingerprints on your life long after they’re gone.

She made the most incredible dill pickles I have ever tasted. To this day, I wish I had her recipe.  I can still picture the mason jars storing her pickles in the pantry soaking in all the flavors she somehow magically knew how to create.

But there was another mason jar that sat in that kitchen window.  

Every Sunday when I stayed at her home, Natalee would call for a church van from The Church of Burleson to come pick us up. She was getting older and couldn’t always drive herself, but she wanted us girls to go to church. Before we left, she would reach into that mason jar and hand each of us a little money.

“This is for the offering,” she would say.

The problem was that I had absolutely no idea what an offering was. To be honest, we didn’t know much about church at all.

We loved music. We loved seeing people. We loved the adventure of riding the church van into town.

What we didn’t love was sitting quietly during the sermon.  More than once, we found ourselves getting into trouble for talking while the pastor was preaching. We usually sat on the back row, whispering and giggling when we should have been listening.

Eventually, we came to our own conclusion that maybe we weren’t really wanted there after the music ended.  So after the singing, we’d quietly slip out the side door and walk next door to Braum’s.  I’m ashamed to say that’s where the offering money went.  Now before anyone judges too harshly, let me offer a defense on behalf of my younger self. 

First, I genuinely did not know I was stealing from the church.

Second, since nobody ever brought us the offering plate or bag, our little kid logic concluded that the money was apparently available for the ice cream offering.

Not exactly sound theology.  But definitely sound elementary age reasoning.

So there we would sit in Braum’s, eating ice cream purchased with money that had been intended for God and given by his faithful follower Natalie.

As I stood in that Braum’s in a completely different city, over thirty years removed buying gift cards for foster families, the memory came rushing back.  I had an odd little thought.  Maybe this was redemption.  Or maybe I’m still somehow using church money at Braum’s.

The difference is that this time it’s ethical.  Either way, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude.  Grateful for Natalie.

Grateful for the church van. Grateful for the mason jar. Grateful for the offering money. Grateful for the church that sat next door to a Braum’s and somehow became a safe place for a few little girls who didn’t understand much about faith yet. Grateful for the ice cream.  Im also grateful for the people who taught me what generosity looked like long before I understood what it meant.

Looking back now, I realize Natalie was teaching lessons none of us were ready to learn. She was teaching us that giving mattered.  She  someone would make a phone call for us. We learned someone would save a seat for us and would trust us to spend money on the offering. I think this beautiful great grandmother taught us someone believed we were worth investing in.

The funny thing about childhood is that sometimes you don’t understand the lesson while you’re living it. Sometimes it takes thirty years after the seed gets planted in our hear on a church van.  It’s growing years after the joys of ice-cream offering  and conversations about church music in a Braum’s booth.

The wisdom sitting quietly inside a mason jar on a kitchen windowsill.

The beauty of it all is that one day, decades later, you suddenly realize  what looked like a simple Sunday adventure was actually a lesson in grace.

I may not have understood the assignment back then but I understand it now.

Because of people like Natalie, I have spent much of my life trying to give back what was given to me.

An invitation. A ride. A meal. A safe place. Kindness. Hope.

Maybe that’s the real offering. Not the money that was supposed to make it into a plate.

But the love that made its way into a little girl’s heart is a gift that has been multiplying ever since.

❤️Stephanie