Questing Parson

One Dollar A Day

It had been a good day for the parson. He rose early, dressed, whistled for Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, to rise from his bed and get started on the day. The squeak of the front door being opened roused Princess Penny, Charlie Brown's girl friend, from her snoring while reclining on the living room loveseat. Both canines began to prance in anticipation at the door as the parson donned his warm up jacket.

Down the street they went, the dogs sniffing out the trails of whatever creatures had wandered out of the forest the night before. Turning left they headed east toward the abandoned logging road that meandered up the foothill behind the parson's abode. Once at the dirt trail the parson began his trot up the hill and into the forest, trot being a descriptive word as the parson's seven plus decades of life encumbered a once-remembered run. At the top of the hill the parson followed the trail back down the foothill toward his house. Charlie Brown and Princess Penny were not in sight, but experience said they were nearby. Arriving at the house winded and sweaty the parson beheld both canines waiting on the porch, tails wagging.

The parson stripped down in preparation for the shower. He stepped on the scales. Ba-Da-Boom!! Two pounds less than this time last week! He showered and dressed as he sang the Doxology to the tune of Chim Chim Cher-ee. Next stop was the study. There he spent the day, staying on task, until next Sunday's bulletin was almost completed, the sermon almost done, and needed emails answered. He felt good.

The late afternoon and early evening were spent delivering meals to the homebound in the community. Charlie Brown and his sweetheart accompanied him as those they visited delighted in the wagging tails.

Back home, the parson settled down to some entertainment. Powering up the computer he brought up Hulu. A feature caught his eye. “Living On One Dollar” the title read. The parson clicked on it and became entertained, delighted, and disturbed.

The documentary traced the journey of four friends in their twenties headed to rural Pena Blanca, Guatemala, with only a video camera and fifty-six dollars where they lived for fifty-six days. How do 1.1 billion people in the world live on less than one dollar a day? The young friends found out. Their video documentary reveals the hardships, the smiles, the hospitality, the openness, the willingness and desire to learn, the dreams, and the disappointments of these children of God, who despite their poverty, welcome the stranger, share abundantly from their meager portions, and make one wonder how we let the world remain in this condition.

When the program ended, the parson wrote a blog, encouraging everyone to watch the documentary, “Living On One Dollar,” and then encouraging everyone to go to Kiva and help change this situation.

A Technological Drawback

A week never goes by without me being remindd how much this world has changed in my lifteime. Gracious, when I first got my driver's license turn-blinkers were a new thing, automaitc transmission was a luxury option, and there were only a few hundred miles of interstate highways in the whole country.

Now that I think on it, if I'd been writing this back then, I wouldn't do so on this laptop; I wouldn't even be doing so with a ballpoint pen, neither of those were available. (Are you old enough to remember those archaic fountain pens?)

Back then, when I wanted to deposit my check, I went to the bank, a bank where the teller knew my name and where I didn't have to produce identification to retrieve my own money because that teller identified me. She knew I was Charlie's little boy. (I bet if I saw her today she'd still identify me as Charlie's little boy.) Back then I couldn't take a picture of my paycheck on my smartphone then click on “Deposit” and instantly receive a message “Deposit Successful.” In fact, back then I actually used checks; I didn't bank online. There was no online.

When I got my driver's license, I didn't drive to school. When I told my Daddy I needed a car so I could drive to school, he told me he agreed and I should get a job to earn enough money to buy one. Truth is, I really didn't mind riding the school bus, everybody did. What I hated was toting those school books to the bus stop a half mile away from home. Today, I'm still toting books around. In fact, I always carry hundreds of thousands of them. I was born too long ago to understand how it works, but all those books are now on my digital reader and/or smart phone.

At this point in this offering you should be grasping the fact this old parson embraces technology. I love it. I love it so much I no longer have a television. I have discovered I can watch ninety percent of the TV programs I like to watch on one of my technological devices. You, dear relic, have to watch your favorite program at home the night it's scheduled. I watch it when I want wherever I am. I can even watch a movie while devouring gourmet delights at the Waffle House.

There is one relic from that ancient age in which I was raised I do miss. I miss maps, paper maps. I miss trying to fold them back up. I miss trying to find the spot I'm currently occupying on the paper in order to devise a route to that place I hope to occupy. Now, the Google Maps and the GPS devices I use today are really great. My GPS tells me how to get from here to there, what time I'm going to get there, how fast I'm going, and even beeps when I come within range of a traffic video camera. My phone is a little more simple, but it, too, can show me on a map where I am at the current time. It can mark a route on the screen. Amazing!

But all these technological map devices have one draw back. Everyone of them shows me being at the center of everything. And neither I nor you, dear reader, are the center of all things.

Mysteries At My House

The older I get the more intrigued I become with things that I somehow just missed along life's pathway. They aren't big things. They are not consequential things. There's nothing earthshaking about my having missed these mysteries, these fascinations, these objects of my senior contemplation. Nevertheless, I seem to be wondering about them more frequently. Maybe it's just a process of aging that one begins to notice what one overlooked before.

I realize that there may be some who think that, because of my age and especially because of my widower status which gives me more time to contemplate things never contemplated before, I may be becoming a bit – well I hate to use the word “senile” but – senile. I beg to differ. Personally, I think I am becoming more attuned with life, more aware of life's challenges, more appreciative of life's gifts, and certainly less occupied and therefore availed of the time needed to discover these fascinations.

You wonder of what I speak, do you not? Well, here are a few examples.

Dog hair has a life and a path of its own. Look, I don't profess to be the world's greatest housekeeper. But I do keep my clothes washed; I do a fairly good job of picking up after myself. And everyday I vacuum and/or run a dust mop over the floors. Here's what I've discovered. No matter how careful I am in this endeavor, after I've put up the vacuum cleaner or put the dust mop away, behind the next interior door I close or open there well be hiding there at least two clumps of dog hair. How does that dog hair know I'm after it?

Another fascination is those softball shaped and sized light bulbs over the master bath sink and the teardrop shaped ones over the table. There are four of them in the bathroom and six over the table. A little while back I placed new bulbs in each of those sockets. Four brand new bulbs, purchased on the same day, screwed in on the same day in the bathroom and likewise six over the table, and yet they do not all burn out at the same time. Assuming all those bulbs went through the same quality control in the manufacturing, don't you think, they should all burn out within twenty-four hours of each other. Not so. And how does it happen that no matter how often I buy those replacement bulbs every other one burns out when there are no replacements in the cabinet?

There's also the ceiling fan. Now the bulbs in the ceiling fan work fine. They're those seven year types. And the ceiling fan itself works fine. What fascinates me about the ceiling fan is the amount of dust accumulating on top of the blades. Have you ever noticed how much dust is on top of those blades? If you haven't, don't. You have to stand on a chair to notice. Which begs the question: Should anyone bother dusting the top of the ceiling fan blades anyway? I mean, if someone visits my home and stands on a chair to look at the top of my ceiling fan blades they can just head back home.

Aw, the mysteries of living that one can notice when one gets old enough and has the time. Maybe it's the time on my hands. Maybe it's mature perception. Maybe I need to get out more.

Too Tired to Blog

The parson woke early-thirty. He dressed, took Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, and Charlie Brown's new live-in girl friend, Penny, for an early morning walk. The fog was thick, really thick at toward the end of the walk. The weather is changing.

The walk concluded, the parson headed to shower, shave and such. Out the door he went. Penny, on seeing him approach the car moved toward the porch and settled down into her usual place; Charlie Brown has not yet condescended to allow Penny to ride in the car.

They headed toward the parson's uncle's apartment. He was ready when they arrived. Charlie Brown settled down in the back seat with a sigh. The parson and the uncle headed to another city for the uncle's daily radiation treatment. Treatment done, the parson headed home.

After dropping the uncle off, the parson and Charlie Brown headed to the really big chain store where they purchased 350' of mesh wire fencing and enough steel posts to place one every six feet along that 350. That completed they headed to another store to purchase ten gallons of athletic field line marking paint. They then headed to the church to unload all the purchases and begin the preparations for the Cow-A-Bunga Bingo, scheduled for Saturday.

The parson pulled out his 300' tape measure and did the calculations to determine the necessary dimensions for 1500 three foot squares, each of which would await the cow's deposit on Saturday at the Cow-A-Bunga Bingo. A layperson was at the church flying up and down the property on his John Deere riding mower, getting the grass ready to receive the markings.

The parson moved to the storage building and extracted the light weight push mower. He then proceeded to trim those areas the riding mower could not reach, close around the fences, around the trees and shrubs. The parson's church property is composed of quite a few acres. Then the parson moved to the ditches along the right of way. He began to pick up the litter tossed there. As he did so some weird dude of some dubious faith tossed more trash in front of the parson. The parson muttered some words that, no doubt, to the layperson helping sounded like ancient Greek.

Trash picked up, the parson then began to cut the two month old growth of grass along the ditches. It was a long job, a really long job. Then the parson hauled off all the debris he'd collected, pushed the mower back to the storage building, moved all the fencing and posts that would be erected the next day inside the building. And then he changed the lettering on the church sign.

The parson and Charlie Brown arrived home long after those folks who actually work for a living got home. The parson fed Charlie Brown and Penny, Charlie Brown's new girl friend, as well as the three wild cats who live in the yard but allow the parson to put out food for them every evening.

The parson cooked his own meal. Sat down, enjoyed it, listened to Brandi Carlile sing about “Dreams,” washed the dishes. And then sat down at his laptop to compose a blog for the internet.

The parson is an old man. The parson aches in places he shouldn't be aching. The parson is going to bed. Try to find some other blog to read today.

Sorry.

A Young Old Crank

Well, if you read this blog you know I've been trekking about Alaska with two of my granddaughters. I discovered a few things about myself on that trip. The big discovery is despite my age I'm still relatively young. I can climb mountains, glaciers, hike dozens of miles into pristine wilderness, and do all these at a rate that keeps pace with an eleven and fourteen-year-old.

Don't let the gray hair and the stooped over morning posture fool you. Don't let the often vocalized complaints about hip pain, cramps, and excessive pounds distract you. I'm telling you, I'm still young. I can keep up with the younger generation.

All of the above is fact. All of the above is an accurate description of me. But, truth be told, there are other counter indicative traits I find in myself. Sadly, those traits present evidence that my youthful feeling is just that, a feeling. In fact, I'm ancient. There, I've admitted it. I'm ancient. And I come to this conclusion with the realization I have become a cranky old man. Being a cranky old man, there are things in this world that just absolutely drive me up the wall, that make me want to scream. For instance:

Don't ever call me at six in the morning and when I, groggily answer, say, “Are you awake?” You suspected you knew the answer to that question; that's why you asked it. So, be nice and call me after I wake up.

Don't carry on a telephone conversation, one in which you're speaking loudly and agitatedly to the person you have on speaker phone, especially when the other person is the spouse you're arguing with, when sitting at the table next to me in a restaurant.

Don't ever, under any circumstance, ask me a question and then, before I can get a word out of my mouth, answer it yourself. I'm just a cranky old man and that bothers me.

Don't ask me if I mind if you cut in front of me in the line where I've been standing for twenty minutes. I'm old; I do.

When you come to me and ask for directions to Happy Valley and I tell you to take the Interstate north to the third exit and then … you say, “Don't you think taking Highway 41 would be better?” you touch off the irritable genes that are part of the constitution of the elderly such as I. If you know how to get there just go; don't ask me to tell you how.

When you're my server in the restaurant, don't make me wait for the check longer than I waited for the food. Usually I'm a fairly good tipper; but, I'm old, I can be talked out of it.

Don't even think about about comparing your grandchildren to mine. You’ll lose.

When we're talking on the phone, don't ask me if you can put me on hold to take another call unless you're willing to admit that other caller is more important than I.

And listen up, bird brain. When my granddaughters and I are ready to board the same plane as you, don't stampede in front of them to get on first. Every seat on that plane is assigned, and, besides, the plane isn't going anywhere until my granddaughters and I board.

Well, I could relate more, but I'm a real cranky old man and it's well past my bedtime.

Love Witnessed

The parson's gift to two granddaughters this past Christmas was the promise of two weeks in Alaska, including climbing a mountain. The ascent is scheduled for June.

Two weeks ago the parson rose from his favorite rocker, and took note the rise from the rocker took an inordinate amount of time. In fact, the parson surmised the rise was more like that of an elderly man than a man such as is the parson, one with the physical prowess of one ten years younger. The parson paused when he finally achieved the full upright position. He paused and thought.

One granddaughter is an accomplished dancer; the other granddaughter is a gold medal winning gymnast. The trek up to the top of that Alaskan mountain would be a little challenging, especially if one had difficulty exiting a rocker and who would need to keep up with those two generations younger. The parson, being the astute thinker he is, calculated that there might be just enough time in the four months remaining to regain a small portion of his vigor.

All the above is but prologue to the parson sitting with his back resting against a rock outcropping just beside and a little below the overlook near the top of Fort Mountain in Northwest Georgia. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, lay beside him with his snout resting on the parson's leg. It had been a long hike. Charlie Brown was snoring softly; birds were singing. The Alaskan jacket the parson wore warmed him comfortably. A seducing weight pulled slightly downward upon the parson's eyelids.

Voices pulled the parson back to wakefulness. Someone was on the observation deck off to the parson's left and a little above. The voices had awakened Charlie Brown also, but after a quick assessment with his nose he resumed his sleep.

“I love you, too,” the female voice said. She spoke with a slight Hispanic accent. “I'm glad you're home.”

They paused a good while. The parson got the distinct impression there might be some spit swapping going on.

“What are you doing, Frank?” the female voice floated with a tinge of surprise over the air.

“Julia, will you marry me?” came the male voice, definitely not Hispanic and definitely Northwest rural Georgia.

There was a squeal. There was a sound of feet jumping up and down on the wood. “Yes, yes, I will,” she squealed.

There was another pause. This pause was longer than the first.

“I can't believe it. It's beautiful. Oh my gosh, Maggie is not going to believe this. I love you. I love you.”

There was another pause.

She spoke again, “Oh Frank, you make me so happy.”

Frank's voice didn't carry on the wind. The parson definitely got the feeling Frank was the strong silent type.

There were no more voices. There was only the wind blowing across the face of the mountain. A blue jay flew down and rested on a branch not five feet from the parson and Charlie Brown. The parson watched him for a moment. He then decided it was time to move his creaking bones. He rose slowly. He stepped forward and peered around the rock toward the overlook. They were gone.

Charlie Brown had finished stretching. The two moved up to the path. The parson walked out on the overlook. He was a bit disappointed Frank hadn't carved his and Julia's names inside a heart on the railing.

An Aging Event

The parson headed home. He pondered how to describe the evening. It was different. It was different, to be sure. The folks he'd been with were different. They were so different than the last time he'd seen them.

The event was a birthday celebration. The place was a tavern down in the really big city where for sixty years politicians had gathered to discuss the future of the city, the county and the state. There were a couple dozen celebrants there. They'd responded to the invitation: “Let's meet at Manuel's Tavern to celebrate our birthday.” No one needed directions. The tavern was just a hop, skip and a jump from the high school they'd graduated from fifty-two years before.

When the parson walked in he thought at first he had arrived at the wrong time. He walked through the establishment, from one end to the other. He didn't see any of his classmates. He noticed a few people at a table staring at him. Tentatively, he approached. One called his name, then another. The parson stared. Who were these people?

The last time he'd seen any of them was at the twenty-fifth reunion. A few wrinkles then were in evidence, a lack of muscle tone was noticeable. But now ….

Well, it's was difficult for the parson to get his mind around. Some of them actually looked like they were seventy. The parson praised the Lord his birthday wasn't until December.

My Mind and Me

The mind is a funny thing. Sometimes it functions like an eight cylinder high performance car in a formula one race car.

The mind can recall the most miniscule detail of a happening long, long ago, like the pattern of the freckles on Polly Anderson's face, my sweetheart, though she was not aware of such, in the sixth grade. The mind can sometimes recall the name that goes with a face but not the place with which the name and face are connected. The mind can comprehend the complexities of a book but can forget where the eyeglasses need to read the book are located.

Could it be my imagination? Is my mind changing as I tip toe into old age. What makes my mind do the things it does.

I don't have a home phone, as in one of those old land line devices. My mind convinced me with reasoned logic that having a cell phone in my pocket and a conventional phone on the table was superfluous. I became a man of the twenty­first century. Imagine it, a senor citizen of my age with an iPhone. (You might ask how one my age and with my mind could master an iPhone. The answer: I study at the feet of my grandchildren.) And yet, after listening to the logic of my mind and getting rid of that antiquated phone two years ago, my mind still whispers to me every time I walk in the house, “Check for messages.”

Lynn passed away almost six months now. I'm not over it, but my mind and I have learned to compensate. My mind tells me frequently, “You need to vacuum,” or “Clothes don't wash themselves.” My mind has encouraged me to live as a widower and attend to all of the chores that before were shared. And my mind has tutored me into being an independent old man who lives alone. But still, so often I turned the corner to head toward the home and I see her car parked beside the house. My mind notifies my heart to increase its beating because, “Lynn's home.”

I don't have a television. My mind, being the dependable organ it is, convinced me that it was ridiculous to have a television when almost everything I want to watch can be viewed over the internet for free. I haven't seen a television program except via the computer for a long while. I'm grateful for the money my mind convinced me to save. Still whenever I sit on the sofa my mind encourages me to look for the remote control.

I conducted a funeral for a dear church member recently. Before heading to the funeral home to be with the family, I arranged everything on the pulpit at the church, my Book of Worship, my order of service, and my message notes. It was a prudent thing to do, so said my mind. When the service began I stepped to the pulpit to behold nothing, no program, no notes, no Book of Worship. Apparently, my mind reasoned, someone straightened up the church in preparation for the service, and in the doing removed my stuff. My mind then, with amazing precision, coached me through the whole service allowing me to appear confident and professional.

I found the notes after the service in a room at the back of the church. Did I put them there? My mind's not talking.

Lines of Grace

The parson was in a meeting. It was a good meeting. There were no arguments, no posturing. The pastors and laity gathered around the tables were reviewing some significant accomplishments in an area cooperative ministry and were previewing more ministry to come.

The parson took an inventory of the little more than half dozen pastors there. They ranged in age from the early thirties to one who was only a decade below the parson. They were a mixture of race and gender. The parson studied the faces of each ordained participant. The lines on their face etched a picture of their ministries.

One, that one just below the parson's longevity, had many creases on his face. Some spiraled out from the edge of his eyes as though hinting of a lifetime of laughter and amusement, and speaking of one who'd found his place in the scheme of things and found joy being where he was.

The brow of another was wrinkled. She'd been assigned a difficult church. The parson knew her church well. And he knew her well. He'd never been sure if her having been sent to that particular congregation was a slap at the congregation from a supervisor who knew they'd bristle at a female pastor or a slap at her for being the determined pastor she was.

Directly across the table from the parson one pastor, new to the area and new to this group, sat with eyebrows puckered as though trying to come to grips with the magnitude of the ministries being talked about and the constant reminders of the other pastors his congregation needed to become more supportive of the work.

A particular pastor, at the end of the table, almost apart from the group, appeared to have no lines of distinction on her face. She sat doodling on her pad seemingly oblivious to the flow of talk unless asked a direct question.

Having surveyed the folks the parson smiled as he wondered what the many wrinkles on his face might say. And then he looked to his left and studied once again the face of a middle aged pastor who was serving a fairly wealthy but inward focused congregation, but who day after day after day after day and sermon after sermon after sermon after sermon and meeting after meeting after meeting after meeting, year after year after year, reminded the congregation that God was calling them to something higher, something more fulfilling, something more redemptive. And all that he did with such a love that none of the members he pestered and chastised would have a thought of asking for another pastor.

The parson spoke a silent prayer that he might wear the lines on his face with such distinction and heavenly grace.

An Afternoon Well Spent

It's no secret the parson is getting up in age. His close friends know the fires from the Pearl Harbor attack had barely been extinguished when he was born. And yet, though he's modest, he still leads an active live. Not confined by the restrains of years nor the addle of brain; the parson's a living example of the benefits of modern medicine and technological development and physical exercise. Quite simply, the parson is what he is.

Take this past Monday, for example. On Monday the parson tries to relax, to defer from performing the myriad tasks he does on other days. He seeks always to make Monday a day for replenishment of the spirit, a day delete of calendared events.

Dawn broke not long before he rose from a night of blissful sleep.  Rested he hit the floor like a greyhound released from the starting gate in pursuit of the rabbit. The day had begun.

The parson's faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, accompanied him on the first quest of the day, the morning walk to shake the kinks away, to get the blood flowing, to give the dog the exercise needed to keep pace with one as on the move as he. Following the morning walk they headed to the hospital where the parson called on a congregant on the mend. From there another call was made on another member in the hospital in another town. By now it was early afternoon. There was more to do. He headed home.

The parson perched myself on the couch after constructing a gourmet delight for lunch. He munched and listened to the news. Lunch was more than satisfying. It softened the need for busyness. The plate was washed and placed in the drainer. The glass of tea was refreshed. Returning to the sofa the parson sipped the tea a moment as he settled into the comfort of the sofa and the warmth of the house and evaluated the options for the afternoon.

He had not planned the trip to the mountain stream, but he made it there. The cool water splashed on his face and wetsuit as he directed the kayak between the boulders and over the churning waters. What a trip. What a thrill.

The journey through the raging waters was followed by an address to an assembled group of clergy sitting in the sanctuary of a large church. The words flowed in poetic cadence; the audience was in the palm of his hand. It was a well-crafted sermon filled with delightful antidotes and poignant points. No wonder there was such applause at the end.

The ride home meandered through a forest. No traffic impeded the enjoyment. The sun shown brightly. There was a crisp freshness to the earth and only wisps of clouds in the sky. So delighful was the journey the parson lowered the window of the car to feel the cool wind whip about the car's interior. The trip seemed to go on forever, but he was in no hurry. There was time, always time to enjoy nature's beauty.

It was the bark of Charlie Brown wanting out that roused him. The ice in the tea glass had almost melted. There was a crick in his ancient neck. Rousing himself from the sofa he looked at his watch. Almost, it was time for supper.