Little Things Mean a Lot
by Kimberly B. Southall
When I was three years old, my mother asked me if I'd like to visit a nearby church to see our "old" preacher, Paul Morrison. I sure did! I thought Preacher Morrison was great, and I missed seeing him at our church. In fact, one time when he was the minister at our church, I had refused to put my dime in the offering plate, insisting that it was for "my preacher." Of course, that's quite a compliment from a three-year-old, and Preacher Morrison was touched. He wrapped the dime in a tissue and tucked it inside his Bible.
Well, we visited the other church and I tried to relax on the pew as any three-year-old will. After the sermon, Preacher Morrison said in front of the congregation, "I see a friend of mine back there. Kimberly, do you have anything you'd like to say?" My mother shuddered to think what I might say and braced herself. Her worry was not unwarranted, for I piped up for all to hear, "Preacher, next time don't talk so loud. I can't sleep!" Of course, he and the entire congregation chortled and guffawed while my mother wished she could sink through the floor. Needless to say, in addition to the dime incident, Preacher Morrison always had good cause to remember me.
My mother saw him about ten years later. He told her he had something to show her. He then opened his Bible, unfolded a tissue, and showed her "Kimberly's dime." Sometimes little things mean a lot.
