I stopped going to church about a year and a half ago. No ill will towards the church I was attending, I just felt like I would be outrageously hypocritical sitting in a pew when other things were going on in my life. I'll just stop the explanation right there . . .
Despite my lack of presence anywhere near a sanctuary, I still tithe. Well, I still set aside a tithe in the form of cash in a special compartment in my wallet. The compartment can't hold it all anymore because I have yet to actually get it to the church.
Should I deposit the cash and send a check? If I did, hubby would no doubt notice a draft for the large sum that has accumulated in a year and a half. An argument would ensue. (Hubby and I have a difference of opinion on this subject. Don't ask . . . )
And which church should I give it to? "My" church which I no longer attend? My in-laws' church where they take my son--a place I am loathe to set foot in? (Too long a story to elaborate. Don't ask . . . )
My favorite charity, Operation Christmas Child? I can't just give them an envelope of cash so I'm back to the same check writing problem.
I have considered taking it to the bank and drawing a cashier's check. Problem is, I keep forgetting. You'd think I'd be a little more conscientious about this important issue, but I'm still me, so . . . don't ask.
In the meantime, I haven't been to the bank in weeks and I've run out of regular household cash. Which would have been okay except that I desperately needed gas yesterday and I had to stop at a gas station where they don't accept checks. Hubby doesn't allow us to have debit cards (again--don't even bother asking) so I was left with only one option: I was forced to borrow God's money.
Nothing makes me quite as uncomfortable as temporarily dipping into the money earmarked to help other people. I feel as though I'll be struck by lightening on the spot. Whenever it happens, I always return that money as soon as possible, and it's not like there's any interest on it, but still I feel like I might as well be grabbing a handful out of the collection plate as it passes by . . .
This is the most uncomfortable kind of debt. As though I don't already live with enough guilt . . .