Molly Bennet greeted her husband at the front door of their house. “Hello, dear. I’m glad you’re home. I was getting a little worried. Did the car break down?”

“No,” John replied, with a quick kiss to his wife’s cheek. “I sold the car,” John replied, as he removed his coat and sat on the worn couch.

“You sold it?” Molly repeated. She came to sit by John and put a hand on his forearm. “But why? What happened?”

John sighed and leaned his head back to face the ceiling, eyes closed. “First of all, Mr. Taggert wouldn’t take our check as a deposit for the new church building. He refused to sign the contract and said we couldn’t do any business until we showed up with five thousand dollars in cash. ‘Then we’ll negotiate,’ he said.”

“But I thought the down payment was four thousand, not five,” Molly said.

John nodded. “It was four thousand, last time we talked.” He opened his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Anyway, the deacons and I had a quick prayer meeting. The men put in as much as they could, but we were still short. A thousand dollars is a lot of money. Then Jim Forrester said he would sell his car, and I said I would do the same. I went to the bank and drew all the money out of the church’s account. By the time we raked together the cash, Taggert & Sons Construction Company was closed for the day. When I got back to the bank, someone was locking up there, too.”

“So that suitcase…?” Molly pointed at the brown bag.

“Cash money,” John replied. “Five thousand thirty-seven dollars. I have the other eighty-five cents in my pocket. It didn’t make sense to put loose coins inside there.” He sat up. “It makes me a little nervous to have all that money here in the house, but I couldn’t think of anywhere else to keep it safe.”

“Well, it’s only for one night. We can put the suitcase under the bed, and you can pay Mr. Taggert in the morning. Would you like some supper?”

***

Molly Bennett scattered corn for her chickens, all the while keeping a wary eye on her back door. She would rest easier when John got all that money back where it belonged. He’d said he would take care of that first thing this morning. However, at sunrise a barefoot boy banged on the front door. “Pastor Bennett needs to come quick,” he said breathlessly. “Mr. O’Callaghan had a heart attack.” Now it was almost noon, with no word from John.

Returning inside, Molly went to the bedroom and checked to make sure the brown case containing the money still rested beneath her bed. Then she went to the kitchen and put on a pot of chicken to boil. Based on the length of John’s absence, she feared Mr. O’Callaghan might be gravely ill. She knew John would stay all day if necessary. At least Molly could provide the O’Callaghan family the comfort of a pot of chicken and dumplings.

Late in the afternoon, John came walking down the dusty road, head drooping. “Brother O’Callaghan passed on to glory,” were his first words of greeting.

“I’ll take some food over there as soon as the bread comes out of the oven,” Molly said, giving her husband a hug. “Be sure and keep an eye on that suitcase while I’m gone.”

Shaking his head, John said, “I forgot about the money with all that was happening at the O’Callaghan farm. I guess old Mr. Taggert figured we couldn’t raise the money for the new church building.” He glanced at the kitchen clock. “He’s gone home by now for sure. The bank’s closed, and tomorrow’s Saturday.”

***

John arrived at the bank promptly at eight o’clock Monday morning. Seeing the crowd outside, he asked, “What’s happening? Why are there so many people waiting to do business with the bank?”

“Haven’t you heard?” a man in overalls asked. “Banks are failing all over the place. I came to get my money before it disappears.”

“Failing? What does that mean?”

A smartly-dressed woman turned around to face John. “It means if you’re not in the front of this line, you’re probably out of luck. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

“Well, I read about some trouble with the stock market, in New York,” John replied. The woman turned away.

“The trouble isn’t just on Wall Street,” the man in overalls said. “It’s all over the place. Growing like a cancer. I should have bought land instead of trusting my money to this here bank.”

John walked from the bank to the barber shop, still clutching the handle of the suitcase containing the church’s money. Finding Deacon Fisher standing outside his shop, John hurried over to him. “Brother Fisher,” he said, “there’s a ruckus over at the bank.”

“Yeah. I heard.” Fisher was a tall, portly man, with a bald pate and a brushy moustache. Opening the shop door, he said, “Come on inside and sit a spell, Pastor. Ain’t nobody going to get a haircut or a shave in this town today. We may as well sit and talk a spell.”

The barber eased his bulk into one of his customer chairs. “I bet old man Taggert wishes he’d a waited to get the church’s money, instead of letting it go down the drain with the rest of the town’s savings. Serves him right, trying to jack us up for a bigger down payment. Shoot, the way things are going I bet we could have got the whole building put up now for less than five thousand dollars.”

“You really think so?” John asked.

“I do,” Fisher answered. “Too bad you didn’t hear about the run on the bank in time to get the church’s money out of there.”

“Could you gather the other deacons together and let us meet in your back room this morning?” John tapped the suitcase. “There’s something we need to discuss. Yes, sir,” he said, “The Lord surely does move in mysterious ways.”

-by Carlene Havel,
Author of "A Hero's Homecoming" co-author “Daughter of the King”
http://goo.gl/s6EQS