It was the end of December and it was an incredibly dreary day. The rain fell lightly but with great persistence and I had little desire to step out into it. The Easton’s, who lived in Brandon, South Dakota had picked me up near the Minnesota border the day before and invited me into their home for the night. As they drove me back to the exact spot that I had finished walking the day before I was quite comfortable and dry in the Easton’s SUV. The heat was on and we were traveling at 65 mph. What did you say? I’m walking across America? Are you sure?

When we arrived at the spot where I was to become a vagabond once again, I asked if we could pray before I set out. When we closed the prayer Angie Easton handed me an envelope and told me to take it as a token of their support for my journey. I didn’t really even know the Easton’s but once again I knew that God was providing for my every need through people who’s hearts were open.

I thanked her for the envelope; it was awkward every time to receive gifts from people. No matter how small or large, whether a stuffed animal from a child, a lunch from a truck driver, or money from a family it never seemed easy to receive when I knew I could do nothing in return. How like God to set it up that way, so that I could learn what it is really like to be in relationship with him. To learn to receive such good things from him and to recognize there is no way for me to pay him back.

I tucked the envelope, unopened, into my jacket and pried myself out of the warm dry car. I pulled my hood tight around my face I slipped on my backpack and began to journey once again.

Magnolia, Minnesota was the first town I came to that day, not a metropolis by any means. Magnolia was barely a town. It had a few grain elevators and a feed store and a tiny little church on the corner. A few houses sprinkled along the side, but that was about it. Although I had walked less than two miles I was already tired of this dreary day. So as I came into Magnolia I looked for a place to get inside.

Each time I walked into a new town I always hoped for a diner or a gas station, even a bar can be a nice place to rest for awhile. But Magnolia didn’t possess any of these and so I looked for a church. Possibly this should have been the first place I looked, but after almost 2000 miles I was well aware that churches are usually locked. Bars are always open, but churches are locked. Something we might want to think about.

I walked up the steps of the tiny white church and as I had expected, the doors were locked. I contemplated moving on, but I knew the next town was almost twenty miles away and if I was looking for a dry place to rest, this was going to be it for the day. I looked around to see if anyone noticed my predicament. If they did they sure didn’t make themselves known.

I walked around the back of the church to see if there was another way in. I wasn’t into breaking and entering, but an open door, even if it wasn’t left open for me would suit me just fine. At the back of the little square building I saw a small door. I tried the knob and it turned easily, I was in. Before I entered I looked around sheepishly one more time. I never got used to the feeling that I had to sneak into a church.

I went in and it smelled like so many of the country churches that I had taken refuge in, the smell of old hymnals and years of use. It was a comforting smell, although the fine covering of dust often bore witness to the museum like quality of many of these churches.

I sat down on the front pew and took off my wet rain gear. I opened my Bible to read, but then decided to sing instead. Somehow when I sang in old churches I always felt like I sounded better. Like having a great accompanist, it seemed there were years of voices that lived between the pews, filling in the bass, tenor and soprano counterparts.

I closed my eyes, put by head back and pretended I didn’t have 20 miles left to walk. With my eyes closed, the silence seemed deafening.

“Leave it here,” was the phrase I heard through that deafening silence. I knew who was speaking. It wasn’t an audible voice and I’m sure if you had been sitting in the pew next to me that you wouldn’t have heard it. But it was a voice that was so clear inside my head and I knew who was speaking.

“Leave what here?” I questioned as I placed my hand over the pocket that contained the white envelope. I already knew the answer to my question, but sometimes my heart has a hard time hearing. I didn’t hear any clarification and I suppose I could have played dumb, but what was the point, the voice and I both knew what we were talking about.

I pulled out the white envelope. It was sealed and it was full. I should have just placed the envelope immediately at the front of the church. I knew what I was supposed to do. But I thought I would just open the envelope and peak at how much money the Easton’s had given and then place it on the altar.

I slipped my finger under the envelope flap and casually pulled out the money, as if it were a common experience, for an unemployed vagabond to hold so much cash. It was crisp and new and I smelled it. It smelled better than this musty old church. I counted each bill 20, 40, 60, 80,100, 120, 140, 160 180, 200. Two hundred dollars. I smelled it again.

“Leave it here.” The voice was firm but not unkind.

Now those words seemed pretty sane in the beginning before I knew what was in the envelope. But now I doubted that God could be serious. He surely didn’t want me to leave $200 in a strange church. I would leave something here, but not the entire $200 dollars. I counted out five twenty-dollar bills, half, and placed the rest back in the envelope. I encouraged myself with he fact that $100 is a lot to give away when you’re walking on faith. Yes $100 would be just fine.

As I sat there and let myself think it through I said out loud, “Better yet, I’ll keep the $100 dollars, for now, and give it to someone down the road. Someone who I can see really needs it.” I put all the money back in the envelope and the envelope back in my pocket and I sat back down.

I sat there for about 10 minutes feeling like a stubborn child. I didn’t hear the voice again, but I was sure it hadn’t changed its’ mind. Somehow even in my stubborn state I knew that God didn’t ask for half. He had asked for the whole thing. And he didn’t want me to leave it there because of what the money would do nor because of who needed the money. In fact it wasn’t even really about the money, it was about my willingness to trust that with or without it God could take care of me.

I stood up and pulled the envelope out of my pocket and walked up to the altar at the front of the church. I placed the money on the pulpit and jotted a quick note. “Thank you for the refuge of your church. While I was here God told me to leave you this offering. I’m assuming someone in your congregation is in need of some assistance. In exchange I ask only this. That you proclaim that Jesus is alive.” I signed it “Walking with Jesus” and put on my rain gear and walked slowly down the road.

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