STORY 4: WHY I BELIEVE IN TITHING: by Karen DeBow
It was 1989 and we were living in a rental house on Lake Desolation Road in Middle Grove, New York. It was an expensive house to live in. Not only was the rent payment high, but the heating bill was terribly high.
Tony and I had been a hundred percent on paying our tithing, but things were getting very tight; our phone was cut off for non-payment and the other bills were at least a month behind. One month I decided not to pay our tithing – we just had to pay some critical bills! I thought that using our tithing money would help us out, but what really happened was that our bills were even worse that month!! For the first time we ended up having to go to the Bishop to help us out. It was so humiliating when he reminded us that when we paid our tithing, we would always have the help we needed. But when we didn’t pay our tithing, the Lord didn’t have to keep that promise.
From then on, we ALWAYS paid our tithing.
One month after that our truck broke down and I had to take it down the hill to the Middle Grove Auto Repair garage. The repair man said it would probably cost about $150 and he would have it ready to go by the next day. On the long walk back up the road to our house, I once again considered using our tithing money to pay the repair bill, but automatically thrust that thought out of my mind. I was determined to pay our tithing, even if it meant that the truck would stay at the repair garage until we could save up the money. I felt a peaceful feeling come over me as I made that decision. I knew it would be hard to not have the truck to drive, but I knew the tithing was more important.
When I got back to our house, I checked our mailbox. In the mail was a check for $150 from Tony’s father’s estate. His father had died many years before, but somehow this one pension had been overlooked and this last amount was given to us!!! JUST ENOUGH TO FIX THE TRUCK!!
I know that was the blessing of paying tithing. As we continued to pay our tithing one hundred percent from then on, our paycheck never increased, but our needs were always taken care of.
I believe that paying tithing is not a sacrifice. I know it is a PRIVILEDGE to pay this little amount back to the Lord – after all, He gives us ALL that we have. We aren’t really giving him a tenth, so much as we are keeping nine-tenths of what the Lord gives us for ourselves!
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STORY 3: January 2009
Our small red VW Bug stopped with a clunk as we rounded a corner of a country road. I pulled the silent car over to the side of the road with the girls in the back of the car questioning me as to what had happened. I didn’t know the cause, but I knew we were stranded with a dead car. I had seen a house right before the bend in the road, so I unloaded my six and five year old daughters out of the car, then reached in over my seven-month pregnant belly and hoisted my two year old daughter out of the car and onto my hip. As we hiked back along the side of the road toward the farm house, I lamented silently to myself as the two girls relentlessly questioned me: It wasn’t bad enough that I was uncomfortably pregnant, but the two year old that I was trying to balance on my hip had a full-body cast due to a broken femur. I silently mumbled about an old car that was too small for our family and the financial futility of even dreaming of a newer and bigger car.
Finally we reached our destination. I about cried with relief when the woman who answered the door ushered us into her living room, set the girls into chairs, and led me to a phone. I called my husband, who said he’d be there as soon as he could so he could tow me the 30 miles back to our home. As I lowered myself into a springy, ratty overstuffed chair, I saw that my three girls were already being entertained by a young teen girl who had gotten out a box of hand puppets. The mother of the home asked if I needed anything, then left to continue her Saturday afternoon chores. I started looking around me, noticing the peeled spots in the wallpaper and ragged rug on the unfinished wood flooring. There seemed to be people all over that house. One teen girl was in the kitchen making cookies, while another teen girl was mopping the dining room floor, which was a patchwork of peeled linoleum on top of old black flooring. They were chatting and laughing as they went about their work. An older teen boy came into the kitchen dressed atrociously in a green and yellow plaid shirt, with striped tan and mustard pants. The girls teased him about his apparel and he laughed them off as he stole a cookie and ran outdoors. Other children came in and out, looking for their mother, or helping the young teen with my children.
The mother came through the room, asking if I was alright. I asked to use her bathroom and she pointed out the way. When I got to the bathroom, I just stood there and stared. The walls were bare two-by-four studs, with nails sticking out to hold up the towels. The floor had no linoleum, just old black flooring that should have been covered years ago. The stark light bulb hung from a bare wire, swinging when you pulled the chain to turn it on. After using the bathroom, I went back to the living room to wait for Tony.
With this fourth pregnancy, I was very seriously planning it to be my last. Our finances were stretched so very thin already, and the thought of being able to afford other children had me scared. I wanted to be able to afford lessons and adequate clothing and things for my children. This fourth child was going to threaten our precarious budget as it was, so any other child beyond the fourth was a severe threat!
The mother came and sat next to me to take a breather from her work and to find out how I was doing. She was such a pleasant woman and I felt comfortable visiting with her. I asked how many children she had, since I couldn’t keep count. She laughed and said she had eleven children. The boy in the odd matched clothing had just come home from his mission and couldn’t find his packed up clothes, so he’d put on what he could find to go help his father out in the barn. She still had eight children left at home. Since money and children were on my mind so strongly, I got up enough nerve to ask her how she could afford all the children. She laughed even harder and said she couldn’t. But they had dedicated their family to the Lord, and let the Lord decide how many children they would have, and the Lord had provided adequately for them and they were all content. I asked about her house and it’s rundown condition – didn’t that bother her? Didn’t it bother the children? She looked off in a thoughtful silence, then told me that they had been meaning to finish their bathroom since before their second child was born, but they’d never had enough money to do so. After awhile, they got used to the bathroom and the rundown flooring and walls of their home, and it just didn’t matter anymore.
She once again left me to help her husband outside. I watched my girls giggling and laughing with their newfound friend, and thought long and hard about what the woman had told me. I couldn’t fathom getting used to a house that seemed so run down. Then I started watching the family as they wove in and out of the house going about their Saturday afternoon agendas. I felt a glow and warmth in that home – I felt peace and contentment – I felt love and harmony. No longer did I see the faded curtains and frayed rug edges. No longer did I see the unpainted kitchen table and oddly matched chairs. I felt I was in a holy place that defied all the riches of the world.
It was then that I decided not to limit my family because of money. I wanted what that dear sweet woman had: a family given her of God. I felt my faith sprout and start to grow as I contemplated discussing this with my husband, then praying about it together.
God gave Tony and me not only our four darling daughters, but three wonderful sons. We’ve never had a store-bought couch and we used that little VW Bug up until I was eight months pregnant with my seventh child (and that is a whole ‘nother story!) We never seemed to get much of what we thought we wanted, but our needs were always met.
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STORY 1: November 2008
WHY I BELIEVE IN PRAYER 
by Karen DeBow
Tony had lost a lot of weight with his Cancer and his wedding ring didn’t fit his finger any more. I tried to convince him to take it off until we could have it made smaller, but he insisted on wearing it. It was a beautiful fall day and he was feeling pretty good, so he went with the Scouts out to a shooting range in a huge field in New York. He came back feeling good about helping the Scouts learn gun safety. But then he realized that he had lost his wedding ring. It must have slipped off his finger when he was out in the field.
Before we could go out to the field to look for his ring, he was put into the hospital for another operation. By the time he felt better and could have gone to the field to look for his ring, the snow had come and there was no chance of finding it.
That next Spring, Tony was much worse with his Cancer and we were packing up to move to Idaho. He insisted we needed to go look for his ring, so we put him in a car with some of the kids and headed for the field. It was so discouraging to see that the field was muddy and many other people had been walking around the shooting range since he had lost his ring. I knew it would be impossible to find the ring and tried to talk Tony out of looking for it. I even used, “It’s not eternal” as a reason to not look. But he was insistent that we find the ring before we left New York.
We all scattered out and walked up and down the field, looking hard for his ring in the mud and footprints. He walked slowly, limping, steadying himself with his cane as he searched the ground.
After a while I could tell he was getting tired, and the children and I were giving up hope. Again, I tried to convince him it was hopeless. He just walked off, leaning heavily on his cane and kept on looking. As I watched him trudge through the field i saw him stop and bow his head. PRAYER! Why hadn’t I thought of it? After his silent prayer, he took another direction and walked across the field to a spot. He pointed his cane and said, “Here it is.” 
The children and I raced over and looked at….nothing! We couldn’t see a ring in the mud. He insisted it was there, so I stooped down and looked in a depressed footprint. The ring was barely visible, wedged in the mud of that footprint. Only a part of it, the size of a pea, was showing!
After digging it out and cleaning it off, we all bowed our heads right there and thanked the Lord for answering Tony’s prayer.
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STORY 2: December 2008
THE CHRISTMAS HOPE CHEST
by Karen DeBow
As a teenage girl in the 1960's, I was very susceptible to Christmas peer pressure. All the girls in school were obsessed with receiving Hope Chests for Christmas, and I found myself begging my parents for a Hope Chest so I could keep up with the “In Crowd”.
I knew my parents could never afford the beautiful Hope Chests that were being sold in stores, especially at Christmastime when they had five children to buy for, but that didn’t deter my downright begging.
My father had lost his right arm during World War II and had done admirably providing for his family of seven. When he realized how important this Hope Chest was to me, he enlisted my two older brothers to help him build a Hope Chest for me. Being resourceful, he used some left-over paneling.
Christmas morning there was a large rectangle box covered with a blanket. Mom and Dad stood by expectantly as I pulled off the blanket. As I looked at my homemade Hope Chest, it took every ounce of what little maturity I had to act like it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I could see that Dad was so proud of his woodwork. All I wanted to do was scream and cry with humiliation as I thought of what my friends would say about this odd looking homemade box.
I have now had my Hope Chest for 42 years and it still stores blankets. It is my favorite possession. Sometime during that 42 years I realized how hard it was for my father to build it with only one hand and two reluctant teenage boys. The pride in his eyes that Christmas morning was real - and now my appreciation for his gift is real!