11/01/2025
The $20 Bill
Born in 1981 — a $20 bill, fresh from the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. They stamped me with a “B,” a mark that said I came from the city that never sleeps. Back then, I was worth something. Gas was $1.25 a gallon, eggs were 90 cents a dozen, and twenty bucks could feed a whole family with change to spare.
I hit the streets of New York first — slipped into a cabbie’s pocket, traded at a diner counter, tucked into a Christmas card. Then I drifted south. Through hands that worked, prayed, hustled, and survived. Through paychecks, offering plates, and coffee cans marked “Rainy Day.”
I made it through the oil bust of the ‘80s, the dot-com crash, 9/11, and 2008. I felt the world hold its breath in 2020. And now, forty-four years later, I’ve landed in Midland, Texas — faded, folded, but still here.
They say I’m not worth what I used to be. In ’81, I could buy 22 dozen eggs. In 2025, maybe three. But I’ve learned something after all these years — value changes, purpose doesn’t. I’ve traveled 1,700 miles and four decades to remind somebody: God’s plan doesn’t expire just because time passes. Even worn things still have worth.
