The Miracle of the Empty Bank.

R.M. Hamilton

Years ago, up Mt Tiger, before Dad noisily burst into the scene in his bright red sports car, Mum, Granddad and Grandma started a business. Mum and Granddad became woodturners. Mum came up with the designs and she and Granddad would then stand at their lathes and churn out hundreds of kauri pin boxes, salt and pepper shakers, wooden fruit and whatever other ingenious little trinkets Mum came up with.

Grandma oversaw sales. They sold to the tourist trade. For artists at least, they did quite well. Then Grandma got the bright idea of hiring a distributor. “Someone to save us lugging stuff all around New Zealand,” explained Grandma. “We’ll reach more customers with less work!”

Mum and Granddad liked that idea. Grandma set about finding a distributor. Having found this boon, my grandparents and Mum packed up boxes of their best merchandise and waited for the big bucks to begin rolling in.

But the big bucks didn’t start rolling in.

“I suppose it takes longer for our money to come in, now that someone else is handling things,” said Grandma doubtfully.

Mum and Granddad looked relieved. Certainly, they didn’t want to have to start writing aggressive letters to money-withholding distributors.

“Yes, I imagine so,” said Granddad, wondering if he could line his next range of jewellery boxes with red velvet. That, he felt would be easier than getting a distributor to cough up a cheque.

“I suspect we’ll hear from them soon enough,” said Mum vaguely. Mentally, she was hot-poker-ing an elaborate design around the base of a pin cushion.

Grandma looked thoughtful. “Of course, it may be a good idea to call them and have a little chat. It might be best coming from you, dear,” she looked at Granddad.

Granddad, pulled from a utopic world of red velvet and wood stain, looked unhappily at the ceiling. Then he assumed his most informed voice which he saved for special occasions. “These things take time,” he said sternly. “I’m sure it will all sort itself out in the end.” He looked at the clock and brightened. “Lunch time is over. Come on Wendy, time to get back to work.”

The two of them padded out of the house and down the path that ran besides Granddad’s abandoned, tangled vegetable garden. At the end of the path was the big green workshop, a happy, muddled artist’s leir that Grandma only ever visited to announce her ‘latest idea’ or to remind her artistic duo that it was time to eat.

For a year, no income came in. That was alright, there were savings and Grandma, who was in charge of shopping and bill paying was wonderfully frugal.

But savings do not last forever.

“I really do think.” Said Grandma suddenly. “I really do think we should to have seen some money. We keep sending out boxes of stuff and we ought to be getting a little something back by now. Something must be done. The bank is getting low.” She looked very hard at her two artists over the breakfast toast. They looked unhappily at the ceiling. Grandma knew what that meant.

“I’m going to ring our distributor and see if I can’t shake out a cheque for us,” said Grandma fiercely.

“Oh good idea,” said Granddad, relieved.

“I wish you would, Mum,” said Mum.

“I expect to have good news for you when you come in for morning tea,” yelled the Chief of Sales confidently as Granddad and Mum pottered down the path towards their leir.

It was an unusually grim Grandma that arrived at the door of the workshop. “They’ve gone bust!” She announced angrily. “Gone bust ever so long ago and didn’t bother to tell us about it! All our stuff’s been seized and there won’t be any money!”

“What do you mean ‘our stuff’s been seized?’” demanded Artist Number One in horror. “What right have they to ‘seize’ our stuff? We MADE that STUFF!” He scowled with one of those rare, intense rages that only a gentle, creative soul can produce.

“ALL MY DESIGNS!” Snarled Artist Number Two. “GONE?”

Grandma looked gloomily at her creative kin. The salient point, she felt, was being missed.

“And NO MONEY!” Repeated Grandma.

Artist One and Two deflated. The Chief of Sales had driven her point home.

“Oh.” Said Mum.

“Oh.” Said Granddad.

Then things got interesting.

Granddad, fired by a sense of outraged justice, made delicate inquiries as to where ‘their stuff’ was being held. Then, aided by Mum, the two of them extracted it with a stealth and cunning that frankly deserves its own story.

But it can’t have it.

That at least, was something. But outside the tourist market, a kauri pin box is a thing of limited value. You can’t pay a bill with a kauri pin box, not even a beautifully made kauri pin box lined with red velvet.

And the day for paying bills came. Grandma, armed with her cheque book drove into town to settle accounts.

“Well, it’s done.” Said Grandma as she walked in the door. “I have paid every bill, and we have nothing but twenty dollars left in the bank. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I do know what we’re going to do. We’re going to praise the Lord.”

The phone rang.

Grandma picked it up. It was a friend they hadn’t heard from for years. “I’m just ringing to say.” Said the voice. “That I can pay you back the $2000 you lent me a few years ago.”

“I don’t remember us lending you any money.” Gaped Grandma into the phone.

“Oh yes you did. Do you remember how I went into goat farming, and I went bust and you lent me $2000?”

“That was a gift.”

“Well, I’m doing rather well these days. I thought I should pay it back.”

Grandma hung up the phone rather shakily. “It’s a miracle. God’s filled up our bank, just when we needed it most.”

She outlined the conversation.

“Gosh.” Said Mum.

“Cast your bread on the waters and after many days it will return to you. Ecclesiastes 11:1.” Quoted Granddad in awe.

“And if you give to the poor, you’re lending to the Lord and he will repay you. Proverbs 19:17” Added Mum.

Not long after this, Dad exploded into the quiet countryside of Mt Tiger in his obnoxiously loud red sports car. It was an impactful event that after love and marriage, resulted in me. “I’m all for woman having businesses.” Said Mum. “But wood turning is not compatible with a baby.”

Today all that remains of Mum and my grandparent’s business, is a cardboard box full of leftover wood turning and this story.

But this is not a story about our family. It’s a story about our God.

It didn’t happen because we’re anything special. It happened because He is totally reliable.

Whatever frightens you today, will be the miracle you rejoice in tomorrow.

Bank on it.