Sure he was frugal. Frugality was lodged in his DNA. Dad’s religion included thrift like a night watchman job includes a flashlight. Never mind the distance my father had to gas up for vegetables on sale. Never mind the extra minutes. Fresh spinach, dicey cucumbers, or savory leeks at a bargain. Ads drew him. When a bright tomato danced in the evening’s tossed salad, we’d hear his boastful story of saving a few pennies.
As for me, the child eating and listening and catching warmth on his saving graces, his stories passed over into patterns of my own money behaviors. I’m compelled to claim a bedside bank close. No matter my age, I watch precious pennies drop into a “piggy bank” to affirm that I’ll always be safe and secure when it comes to having enough.
I think about his pennies. Dad called them “opportunities.” In them, he said, “God shines.” So now, for me, I spot one (which I did just yesterday) and I stoop to grab it just quickly as my father grabbed juicy-looking tomatoes. And on a bike ride, my feet can easily squeak to a stop, turn back, pick one up, and right there polish it and savor that little instrument of joy.
Sure, it doesn’t buy much. But echoes of Dad’s words: “It’s not about what it will buy. It’s about being vigilant, about all that is promised by God.” After all, don’t we believe that embossed shiny inscription on it: In God We Trust?
