Questing Parson

It's Not the Age; It's the Age

The parson was at the bottom of the really big slide, the kind that's a tube. From inside the slide came a squeal. The squeal proceeded the appearance of a three-year-old grandson from inside the tube.

“Okay, let's go again,” shouted the grandson. “You can go with me this time.”

The parson turned to follow his scampering feet to the ladder which would take them to the platform where the bridge that led to the really big slide on the other side of the playground apparatus. A voice beckoned him.

“Parson, how are you?”

The parson turned to see Quincy Edwards, a lay leader in a nearby congregation. “Hello, Edward. I'm good. In fact if I felt any better the Baptist might call it a sin.”

Quincy sat on the bench next to the playground area and replied, “Funny, Parson. I'll have to remember that one. Look do you have a moment to answer a question?”

“Sure,” the parson replied, “what's up?”

“Do you know a preacher named Ronald Letterman?”

“I can't say that I do; why do you ask?”

“Because we just learned that he'll be out next pastor. Some of us are a bit concerned about it.”

“Have you met him?”

“No, we haven't.”

“Then what are you concerned about?”

“It's like this, Parson. We're told he's a little over sixty. This will probably be his last appointment before he retires.”

“That concerns you?”

“Well, yes, it does. Look, Parson, we suggested that the only way our church was going to grow was if we got a young pastor. We need someone young to bring some new life to the place.”

“Hey, are you coming?” came a cry from the ladder as the grandson began his ascent to the top of the slide once more. “Come on, we can go down together.”

The parson turned back to Quincy. “Look, Quincy, I don't think you have a worry.”

“Why not?”

The parson was halfway up the ladder when he answered, “Because, Quincy, the youngest pastor in Northwest Georgia is seventy.”

Looking Forward to Pentecost

“So, how was the sermons last Sunday, Parson,” asked the parson's non-church-going friend.

“It seemed to go okay,” the parson replied.

“Okay, okay, it just went okay?”

The parson smiled at his engineer friend. “Yeah, sometimes they're just okay.”

“I thought you put a lot of effort in your sermons, Parson.”

“I do,” the parson said, “but sometimes they're just okay.”

“So, do you know ahead of time if it's going to be great or just okay?”

“You know,” said the parson, “that's the mystery of it. There are days I walk into the pulpit thinking I've got the best sermon I've written in a decade and after the service I get those standard responses, 'Enjoyed the sermon.' And then there are times I go into the pulpit ashamed of my failed effort and I get stuff like, 'You'll never know what that sermon meant to me.'”

“How do you explain it?”

The parson smiled, “Tell you what, why don't you come to church on May 27^th and I'll explain it to you.”

Mountain Top Experiences

Below is QP and granddaughter # 3 atop Mount Healy in Alaska last year.

Coming in one month today, providing the ancient parson's legs hold out, QP and granddaughters #s 1 and 2 atop the same mountain.

Let's Keep In Touch

The parson received the text about five in the afternoon. Adam Trawick, an old, old friend updated him on his approach to the parson's town.

The parson and Adam had been the best of friends during college. Life had taken them in different directions. It was by chance they bumped into each other at a hospital in the Really, Really Big City. They'd promised to contact each other soon. Adam had followed through.

Adam had been meeting with an architect. Adam was the chairperson of the building committee at his church. They were planning on building a new sanctuary. It was going to be a very involved project. The church, the parson thought, was lucky to have Adam at the helm. Returning home from the meeting
Adam was passing through the parson's town.

The parson headed toward the coffee emporium. The two arrived at almost the same time. Inside the beverages were ordered. They took a sat at a table in the corner. The two began to catch up on old times, back when the parson and Adam had no cares and no woes, back when getting through Dr. Beckman's statistics class was the major challenge to an otherwise perfect existence, back when they were making plans to dazzle the world with their combined onslaught following graduation.

They both exchanged stories of children and grandchildren, of career paths followed and changed, of wives and lovers, and, even at their age, plans for the future.

Both now joked with each other over how their expectations had bumped against reality, how the conflict had tempered their ambition and sculpted them to find meaning in careers back then totally unexpected. And now they sat in the coffee shop reflecting on the unforeseen paths they'd taken.

“Remember, Vicki?” asked Adam.

“I'll never forget Vicki,” the parson smiled.

“Ever hear from her after graduation?”

“Never,” said the parson.

“Franklin Hodges, I wonder what became of him?”

“He's another one who vanished after school.”

“Strange, how people turn corners in life and just don't look back,” Adam reflected.

“I know what you mean,” the parson replied.

“How about Jeff Stewman?”

“Jeff came through town when I was in graduate school. We shared a pizza but I haven't heard from him since.”

“That is surprising. You guys were really close back in those days.”

“You know, that day he came through town. I remember we exchanged phone numbers and promised we'd keep in touch. He never called, and I don't know where his phone number is.”

Their conversation continued until night began to slowly close the door to the sky. Adam said he needed to head down the road. The parson acknowledged he had a few things to attend to. The rose, headed out to door to their respective cars, shook hands an.d hugged.

“You know, Adam,” the parson remarked. “Considering we're in our seventies, we probably shouldn't wait another twenty years to get in touch.”

Happy Mother's Day

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

Garrison Keillor's Methodist Blues

Reasoned Prayer

The parson was stacking his plates on the tray to take them to the conveyor belt for their journey to the hospital cafeteria kitchen. As he rose from the chair, Sam Holliday, pastor of the Church of the Glorious Redeemed, walked up.

“Parson, good to see you. Hope things are going well for you now.”

The parson replied affectionately, “They are Sam; much better. You know, Sam, I'm not sure I told you how much I appreciated your support when Ms. Parson died. The notes you sent all through that first year were, well, they meant a lot.”

“You're still in my prayers, Parson.”

“Thanks, Sam, I need them.”

“Well, I won't keep you,” Sam said. “It really is good to see you again though. We'll have to get together soon for another of our arguments.”

“Let's do that. Give me a call.”

Sam turned to join some folks at a corner table. The parson turned to move toward the tray return. Sam turned back. “Parson, let me ask you something real quick. What do you think about that secularist group trying to kidnap the National Day of Prayer?”

“I guess I've missed this, Sam. How is someone going to kidnap the National Day of Prayer.”

“Some organization of atheists and humanist had a celebration of a National Day of Reason on the same day as the National Day of Prayer. I thought it was insulting. What do you think?”

“You know, Sam, when we get together this can be what we argue about.”

“You're not offended at this.”

“Actually, Sam, I'm a bit hard pressed to find a conflict between prayer and reason.”

Independence Lens Looks At Women

Watch Women Are Not the Problem, They Are the Solution on PBS. See more from Independent Lens.