It was sometime in the late 1980s, and I was working at Killearn United Methodist Church in Tallahassee.
I was still new to adult life. New to living on my own. New to paying rent, buying groceries, keeping up with bills, and discovering how quickly a paycheck could disappear. I had a real job, but I did not have much money.
One evening, I was working after the church office had closed. The building was quiet, but the telephone kept ringing.
I ignored it at first.
It rang again.
And again.
Eventually, more annoyed than compassionate, I answered.
The voice on the other end belonged to a man who sounded upset. His mother had died, he told me, and he was trying to get to Thomasville, Georgia, for her funeral. Thomasville was only about forty miles up the road, but he had run out of gas and had no money.
This was long before cell phones. He was calling from a pay phone, working his way through the churches listed in the phone book, hoping someone would answer.
I had heard enough warnings to know that stories like his were sometimes scams. Even then, churches regularly received calls from people with emergencies involving gasoline, stranded families, sick relatives, or funerals just far enough away to require financial help.
His story might have been true.
It might not have been.
I listened, and something about his voice stayed with me. Maybe it was the grief. Maybe it was the desperation. Maybe it was simply the fact that I happened to answer when I could have let the phone keep ringing.
I wanted to help him, but there was a problem.
I was broke.
What I did have was a large jar filled with change.
I grabbed the jar, drove to the gas station where he was waiting, and handed it to him. I also gave him one of the church’s business cards and wrote my name on the back.
He thanked me through tears.
Then I drove away.
I remember thinking that the money was gone. I would probably never see the jar, the change, or the man again.
And perhaps I had just been fooled.
But I also thought that maybe he had been telling the truth. Maybe his mother really had died. Maybe he really was trying to reach Thomasville. Maybe a jar of loose change had helped someone get to his mother’s funeral.
There was no way for me to know.
About a year and a half later, an envelope arrived at the church addressed to my attention.
Inside was a handwritten note.
It said:
“Thanks for believing me.”
There was also a check made out to me for $57.12.
He had counted every penny.
All those months later, he remembered the young church worker who had answered the telephone. He remembered the jar of change. He remembered being trusted at a moment when he knew his story was difficult to believe.
I have forgotten many purchases that cost far more than $57.12. I have forgotten bills I paid, meals I bought, and things I once thought I needed.
But I have never forgotten that jar of change.
Perhaps believing someone is not the same as knowing with certainty that everything will turn out as we hope. Sometimes believing is simply deciding that another person’s need matters more than our fear of being taken advantage of.
That does not mean we should abandon wisdom or ignore every warning sign. Discernment matters. Boundaries matter. There are people who will take advantage of kindness.
But if protecting ourselves from ever being fooled keeps us from ever being generous, then mistrust has taken more from us than any scammer could.
I took a chance on a stranger that night.
A year and a half later, he did more than return $57.12. He returned a little evidence that compassion is not always misplaced, trust is not always foolish, and sometimes the voice on the other end of the telephone really is telling the truth.
Sometimes we need to be careful.
And sometimes we need to just believe.
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