I had just moved back to Dallas after living and working in another state for a few years. It was late 1990, and lots of business were laying off employees, so I was really glad to be able to get a job as soon as I needed one—the big firm where I'd worked before, first in the '70s a couple of times and again in the '80s, offered me work as soon as I called them. They always seemed to have a place for me. And that felt good. It would have been easy to believe that at my age, I was not exactly this law firm's first choice—that they'd want the youngest, strongest, and most technically savvy people they could find.

My first day back, I saw lots of old friends and colleagues. Their common greeting was, "She's baaack."

Some things hadn't changed. I was amazed to see that they were still using a checklist I had designed ten years earlier. But some things had changed. There was a new department in the firm that really appealed to me—a support department. Its purpose was to take overflow work from all over the firm. The variety of people to work with, the variety in types of law, the variety in kinds of projects, all appealed to me. But the word was that this particular department was tough to get into. You had to have a lot of experience and be a real stickler for the tiniest detail, and you had to get along well with a lot of different kinds of people—most of them working under a lot of fast-paced workplace stress. well, that sounded good to me, too.

When I asked the human resources rep if I could get into that area, she said there wasn't really anything open there and that you "kind of have to prove yourself first." So, she put me in a position where I would be available to that department if they needed somebody extra and where, meanwhile, I could work on special projects.

Pretty soon I was asked to take on a cataloging task in the litigation department—but as a representative of the support department I was hoping to become a part of. For four weeks I was stashed away in a small office with stacks and stacks of pleadings and exhibits for a case so complicated that in the end you could hardly tell who was suing whom. What a puzzle! I was to sort through all the paperwork, put it in order, index everything, and make sure there was a set for everybody who needed one. I worked through it, bit by bit, and finally saw some daylight. Then it was time to make copies for the various parties involved.

That's where I slipped up. I ordered too many sets of copies. At first, it sounded like a lot of wasted paper. And I was mad at myself about that. But then, I realized, it was more than wasted paper. This "mistake" would be billed to the client if I just ignored it, and it would be billed for a good deal more than it had cost the print shop to make the copies. It would amount to more than $200. My heart sank. I really hated to go to the lawyer in charge and tell him what I had done, but I certainly didn't want the client to pay for my mistake. I wanted to cry, and I thought about how hard it would be for me to pay for this mistake out of my salary. But most of all, I saw my hopes of joining the support department evaporating.

Finally, I prayed. The way I prayed then was really just to be still and say to God, "I've really messed up, but I know You're here and You're in charge of all this. And You love all of us. So what can I do?" Instantly, a wonderful response came: "Honesty is spiritual power." That's actually a statement from Science and Health, found on page 453. I'd read it dozens of times. This time it was more than just words, though. It was like a solid reality. It had life to it. I loved it. I'd asked for help, and here it was. I felt so connected to the spiritual power that was equated with honesty that I didn't really care anymore where I worked, or for whom. I just wanted to be in the presence of that spiritual power.

I went to the lawyer managing the case and told him what I had done. He didn't eat me alive, but just told me what to do ensure that the printing costs didn't go on the client's bill. And we recycled a pretty tall stack of paper that day. So my job was done, such as it was, and I was prepared to take a different position from the one I'd hoped for.

A couple of days later, the manager of the support department called me into her office and said she wanted me to see the "green slip" report from the lawyer in charge of the project I'd recently finished. Would you believe he had written: "Bettie is bright, intelligent, pleasant, and efficient"? I'm sure my mouth dropped open. I was completely baffled.

When I thought about it later, though, I realized that's what spirit ual power does. It brings out the best in you, and that's what people see— the best. Honesty doesn't have to cost you something. It rewards you, even when you've messed up.

I did get the job in the support department and spent four very happy years there until I moved out of state again. When I left, my friends didn't really say goodbye; they said, "See you next decade. We know you"ll be back"

I don't know about going back. That's not my plan. But I do know there will always be a little bit of me there because the firm was benefited by the same thing that helped me in that moment of prayer in a little office, when honesty and spiritual power came together, hand in hand, a gift from God.