Jesus Died for My Allowance

Growing up I never wanted for much- if I asked for something, within reason, I usually got it.  I had my own little childhood expense account that I used to get Legos and Gameboy games.  I was happy with this system until I entered public school and discovered that some of the other kids and their families used an allowance system.  Some of my classmates would talk about how their parents gave them up to $25 a week.

When I approached my parents about switching my expense account into a weekly payment plan, they were initially dubious so I made some concessions.

They balked at my request that they match my classmates at the industry standard of $25 per week citing that “no child needs that much money.”  When they submitted their counter offer of $3 per week I found it offensive.  I knew I was worth more than that, they were just trying to send a message.  That evening at dinner I tried to unionize with my sister but our lack of leverage proved fatal to the cause.

With no foreseeable recourse, I resigned myself to a meager, allowanceless existence.  Needless to say, I was irate when I noticed my mom writing a $40 check at church the next Sunday.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!?”  I shouted over the offertory music.

“Honey, be quiet,” my mom said.  “I’m writing a check to the church, like I do every week.”

“YOU DO THIS EVERY WE-“ my mother shot me a stern look.  “You do this every week?”  I said again with a hiss.

“Yes.  Jesus said those who have faith should tithe or give back to the church.  This is our tithe.”  She held up the completed check for me to see before placing in the tray that was being passed down our pew.  I watched in horror as a somber gentleman in a bad toupee carried away the heaping dish of cash and checks.

“If Jesus needs money so bad, why doesn’t he ask his parents?  He’s got three of them after all!  I only ask for 25 dollars and you give him 40?  Cast out the money changers!  Where’s a table, I’m gonna overturn a table.”  My mom grabbed me and held me down as I squirmed in my seat.  People were starting to look at us.  “You know dad works here, right?  Where do you think that $2000 bonus at the end of the year comes from, mother?  That’s not new money, that’s just a tax return!  BREHARAHRHAHHHRAH!”

My mom had to drag me out of the church.  My outburst won me a month without television and I definitely wasn’t any closer to getting an allowance. 

This past Easter, just like she does every Sunday now, my mother wrote a check and handed it to me to put in the tray as it passed by.  Just to remind me that Jesus died for my allowance.