into full swing, Colton’s illness hit, knocking me out of work for nearly
another month. We had about as much chance of coming up with $23,000
as we did of winning the lottery. And since we don’t play the lottery, those
chances were zero.
“Do you have any receivables? Anything due you can collect?” Sonja
said.
She asked because she had to, but she knew the answer. I shook my
head.
“I can put off some of these,” she said, nodding toward the envelope
stack. “But the tenth bills are definitely due.”
Here’s a great picture of how small a town Imperial actually is: folks have
tabs or accounts they run at places like the gas station, the grocery store,
and the hardware store. So if we need a fill-up or a loaf of bread, we just
swing by and sign for it. Then on the tenth of the month, Sonja makes a
fifteen-minute trip around town to settle up. Our “tenth bills” are one of the
cool things about living in a small town. On the other hand, when you can’t
pay, it’s a lot more humbling.
I sighed. “I can go explain the situation, ask for more time.”
Sonja held up a sheaf of papers a little thicker than the others. “The
medical bills are starting to come in. One of them is $34,000.”
“How much will the insurance cover?”
“There’s a $3,200 deductible.”
“We can’t even pay that right now,” I said.
“Do you still want me to write the tithe check?” Sonja asked, referring to
our regular weekly donation to the church.
“Absolutely,” I said. God had just given us our son back; there was no
way we were not going to give back to God.
At just that moment, Colton came around the corner from the living room
and surprised us with a strange proclamation that I can still hear to this day.
He stood at the end of the counter with his hands on his hips. “Dad,
Jesus used Dr. O’Holleran to help fix me,” he said, standing at the end of
the counter with his hands on his hips. “You need to pay him.”
Then he turned around and marched out. Around the corner and gone.
Sonja and I looked at each other. What?