Jem and I had heard the same sermon Sunday after Sunday, with only one exception.
Reverend Sykes used his pulpit more freely to express his views on individual lapses from grace:
Jim Hardy had been absent from church for five Sundays and he wasn’t sick;
Constance Jackson had better watch her ways—she was in grave danger for quarreling with her neighbors;
she had erected the only spite fence in the history of the Quarters.
Reverend Sykes closed his sermon. He stood beside a table in front of the pulpit
and requested the morning offering, a proceeding that was strange to Jem and me.
One by one, the congregation came forward and dropped nickels and dimes into a black enameled coffee can.
Jem and I followed suit, and received a soft, “Thank you, thank you,” as our dimes clinked.
To our amazement, Reverend Sykes emptied the can onto the table and raked the coins into his hand.
He straightened up and said, “This is not enough, we must have ten dollars.”
The congregation stirred. “You all know what it’s for—Helen can’t leave those children to work while Tom’s in jail.
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