Questing Parson

Return On An Investment

The promise of fall was in the air. Down the driveway the parson bounded. There was really no reason to do so. But, the promise of spring was in the air. The sermon's completion could wait until tomorrow. The wild cat who inhabits the woods next to the house bounded across the yard, pausing on his path to stop directly in front of the parson with hunched-up back, tail pointed skyward. He jumped up and down twice. The parson stooped, holding out his wiggling fingers in the vain hope she'd allow him to pet her. She didn't. She jumped straight up once again and then bounded into the woods. She's stay there, he knew, until he called her as he placed the food in her plate in the evening. Then she'd come, but only as far as the bottom step until the parson disappeared into the house.

Another ten yards brought him to the mailbox. Inside there was an envelope. Miracle of miracles, inside there was one envelope, no advertisements, no announcements that now that he was mature enough to know better he could get a new credit card with a credit limit that would allow him to purchase a starter size house. It was just one plain envelope, with a handwritten address and return address, all by itself, lonely in the cold box on this chilly day.

He studied the return address. It was printed in block letters as was his name and address. He didn't recognize the sender's name. Puzzled, he opened the envelope and retrieved the contents. A piece of paper from inside the folded letter fluttered to the ground. He bent over and picked it up. It was a check. Now he was really puzzled.

The parson turned his attention to the letter. With the first line he remembered him: “You took the time to ask about me when we were stuck at the Flying J Truck Stop.

It was a month before. The parson's uncle uncle and he were leaving Denny's after lunch. As they walked to the car he noticed the man pacing back and forth. He moved to the trunk to place his uncle's walker in it. The man was still pacing back and forth. He walked around to the driver's door. The man was still pacing back and forth. On an impulse the parson walked over to him.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” he said. “I'm kinda in a predicament.”

“What's the problem?”

He told the parson he'd driven down from Tennessee He was on his way to Emory University Hospital where his wife was scheduled for surgery the next day. Somehow he'd taken a wrong turn near Chattanooga. He'd headed toward Birmingham instead of Atlanta. Now he didn't have enough gas to get to Atlanta. And he'd apparently left his wallet at home.

The parson has been a preacher for over forty-five years. He's been had by the best of them. You'd think he would have learned his lesson. The parson directed him to pull his car over to the gas pump. He topped his gas off on his credit card and handed him two twenties. The man, at first, refused the money. The parson insisted he needed it because of his wife needing his support. And then he drew him a map showing the way to the hospital, the hospital parking lot and how to get to the admission's office.

The parson never told the man his name. But the envelope was addressed to him. The check was for more than two twenties and was payable to him. The man had gone to some trouble to repay the debt.

They're back home now. His wife is fine. He's relieved. The parson headed back up the drive; life seemed good, very good, for the both of them.

A Good Day

The day had been horrific. Illness in the family had demanded the parson's attention. Pastoral needs had also demanded attention. The one meeting the parson attended had been a blur. He'd sat in the meeting not really listening but mentally working out how he was going to handle the crisis that waited.

Finally, the parson arrived at home. He stopped the car at the bottom of the drive, got out and retrieved his mail from the box.

Inside the parson thumbed through the mail. A card had a familiar return address written in a child's printing. The parson took the card with him to the kitchen. He retrieved a drink from the refrigerator, sat down at the table and smile as he opened the envelope, memories of her and her brother flooding his mind.

They'd move away from the church a couple years ago. He missed her smiling face, her enthusiasm, and her sense of adventure. As he began pulling the card from the envelope that day long ago came to mind when she, then eight years old, said, “I'm sorry if I don't smell good right now. I had to help deliver a calf before we came.”

The parson opened the envelope and smiled at her ten-year-old handwriting.

“Dear Parson,

“Mom told me it was pastor appreciation month so I decided to write you. Happy Halloween, too. We went to see the movie curageous. It was awesome.

Bye,

I love you."

The parson folded the card, replaced it in the envelope. He got up and moved to the place in the living room bookcase where he kept important documents. He put her card in there.

It was a great day.

From A Date Delivered

The highlight of the day was the trip to the restaurant. It wasn't a chain establishment. Tucked away in an in-town neighborhood of the big city, its modest appearance belied the gastronomic delights inside. The parson, Ms. Parson and the couple who were their guests were directed to a table in the corner beside the window where metropolitan citizens moved up and down the side walk, talking and laughing and intermingling.

The parson had the most direct view of the street, a view that was exactly centered between the shoulders of the couple with and across the table from him. The restaurant was not crowded yet; although experience told whispered it would soon be.

Marie, the daughter of the chef and the real force behind the restaurant's success, came over to greet the party. They talked a while about her father, who was off that night. They talked about her life and the changes she'd made in the place since she'd become the General Manager. After a moment a discreet motion of her hand summoned a server to the table. “This is Tony,” she said. “He'll take care of you. If you need anything just call for me."

Tony asked if they'd like a beverage. He listened carefully as each responded, not writing anything down. As he turned to walk away another party entered the restaurant. There were six of them. They were seated at the table behind the parson, three men and three women. One of the women caught the parson's attention. There was something familiar about her. Had he met her before? Did he know her professionally? He watched her closely, but no bell of recollection rang.

Tony returned at placed our drinks before them. He asked if they'd like some appetizers. They did. He pointed out the various choices on the menu. When asked he quickly made two recommendations. They took his advice. Soon the dishes arrived. Tony took their entree orders and they dug into the appetizers.

All the while the conversation behind the parson was getting louder. “Well, sweetheart,” said the woman he'd been unable to place, “You have to admit, your choice there was a bit ridiculous. I mean, come on, why would anyone make that kind of dumb investment?” The parson could almost feel the weight of embarrassment settle on the husband's shoulders as the others at his table no doubt squirmed. About the time the parson, Ms. Parson and their guests finished the appetizers and had started in on our various entree choices, her voice boomed out again. “Frank, that's the dumbest thing you've said in five years. There's no way in the world you'll ever go to Europe, so what difference does it matter what you'd like to do?” It continued that way throughout the meal. She was a distraction. She was offensive. And she certainly was unmerciful in her various assessment of her husband's qualities.

Desert finished, the bill paid, a farewell discussion with Marie concluded, the parson's party stood to leave. The parson looked over at the woman behind his chair. Immediately a flashback seized him. It was as clear as it had been only an hour ago. He was on the high school bus riding home. Linda Rollins sat across from him.. The parson screwed his courage up. He leaned forward to ask her to the dance. But she started talking to her girl friend. She paid him no attention. He didn't ask her.

They left the restaurant and walked in front of the window. The parson looked in at the older Linda Rollins. He turned his eyes upward and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. “Thank you, Lord,” he said and hugged Ms. Parson.

Thank You For Your Service, Natasha

There’s something about airports, especially the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. The whole world, it seems, passes through those gateways, all with a destination to meet or being the destination being met.

The scream wasn’t really a scream; it was more a shriek. Each decibel must have been a measure of the time of their separation. She had been standing at the place where arriving passengers first appear as the enforcers of airport security would allow. Like an energizer bunny she kept time with the march of her anxiety with the up and down bouncing of her body. She saw him; the scream commenced; she propelled herself toward him and he was enveloped by her arms as tears drenched four cheeks.

He sat in a seat near the window overlooking the jets being prepared. A notebook computer was in his lap; plugged into the computer was a Verizon internet connection driver; he punched the keys with the index finger of his right hand as he spoke into the cell phone held to his ear by his left hand. He spoke first in Spanish. Then he spoke in French. Then he spoke in English. I speak a smidgen of Spanish; I only know how to say three phrases in French and two of them I can’t write here; but I do speak English. The Spanish and the French participants in the conversation were about to get fired if they didn’t get something straightened out.

She had a certain air of confidence about her. She looked to be in her mid-forties, dressed in a nicely tailored business suit accented with a floral scarf tied bandana style around her neck. She approached the agent at the departure gate and said to him in a voice that commanded attention. “I’m going down to that restaurant to grab a bite to eat. Tell the pilots if I’m not back when they’re ready I’ll be here shortly.” She left before the agent could comply.

A young lady in her late teens or early twenties stood somewhat apart from the others with a quiet demeanor that reflected assurance. Her choice of clothing was obviously not dictated by fashion but the directive of the United States Secretary of the Navy. Her dress whites were gleaming; her shoes were spit shine bright; her arm displayed the stripes of a E-3 Naval Airman; her auburn hair was drawn back in a bun; her naval hat held in her hand. None of it could disguise her beauty.

There were four of them, mother, father, three-and-a-half year old son and infant. The three-year-old pulled his own appropriately sized bag on wheels behind him. They boarded single file. “You go first,” said the mother to the three-year-old. You be the leader.” He did for about twenty feet down the aisle, then, he turned, “I don’t want to be the leader anymore.”

The young woman in her whites sat in the seat across from the parson, but not before she carefully pulled her uniform in such a way as to minimize the possibility of causing a wrinkle. She sat militarily rigid and upright.

The wheels left the ground. The plane headed to Salt Lake City. Before the landing, the parson spoke to her. Her name’s Natasha. She’d just graduated from Aviation Technology School in Pensacola and was heading home to visit her folks before going to her duty station in Norfork.

Everyone departed the plane in an orderly fashion in Salt Lake City. The three-year-old followed his mother, still not ready to lead.  The parson followed Natasha. She is.

Free Is What Flavor?

Regina Weston had called in sick. The parson, therefore, along with his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, showed up at the Soup Supper Monday around noon, leaving him five hours to get the evening’s dinner completed.

He’d just finished chopping the onions when Zelda Marion came by and pretty much demanded to talk about the lack of instruction in one of the Sunday School classes. The parson tried to be cordial, to listen to her in compassion, but in addition to the onions there were other preparations to be made. Finally, she left. The parson headed back to the kitchen, finished the preparations of the soup’s ingredients, placed them along with the proper amount of broth in the kettle and turned the eye on.

Jeffery Kempton arrived about that time. The parson sat down in the office to with him to hear his complaints of the lack of dedication among the young adults. While being polite, the parson couldn’t help but wonder how one generated enthusiasm with Jeffery, a young adult himself, complaining all the time. Finally, Jeffery left.

The parson headed back to the kitchen, placed a large sauce pan on the stove full of water, threw some tea bags in the water and waited for the boil. As he waited he pulled out the cornmeal and the other ingredients to make the cornbread. And that completed he began to open the large pan of peaches. Three inches around the edge the can opener broke.

“Come, Charlie Brown,” the parson called after lowering the heat on the pan with the water and tea bags. He rushed outside and across the highway to the store on the other side of the highway. There he purchased another can opener and he and Charlie Brown headed back to the kitchen and the preparations. The can now open he extracted the contents and began to create the peach cobbler.

A half hour before the scheduled opening Florence, the indigent woman who somehow endeared herself to the parson with her constant and creative attempts to extract money from his wallet, entered and called out, “Hey, Parson, I’m here and I’m starving.”

The parson did not need to answer. Charlie Brown, on hearing her voice, headed to greet her, knowing he was in for a full quarter hour of petting.

When the quarter till the hour point came, several of the volunteers arrived and relieved the parson of some of his anxiety at getting everything out in time. He took a moment and poured a glass of the tea, leaned back against a kitchen counter and relished his cool refreshment.

Ring. Ring. The phone called out.

The parson answered. The voice on the other end said, “Hi, are ya’ll having that soup thing tonight?”

“We are,” said the parson.

“Well, we’re calling to see if we might come.”

“Well, come on,” said the parson. “You’ll be welcome.”

“That may be,” said the voice, “but we need to know what kind of soup you’re having to decide if we’re coming.”

The day flashed through the parson’s mind. He replied, “It’s hot. It’s good. It’s ready. And it’s free.”

First Things First

The parson stopped at the Quik Trip, America’s Number One Convenience Store stop, to indulge himself a cup of cappuccino following a morning with the CEO of a computer geek firm. The parson was seeking advice on an internet café his church was setting up. The project would allow indigent students from the high school just up the street to use the internet for school work, and, additionally, allow the poor unemployed to apply for jobs online.

He was exiting the store when Winston Mansfield approached the door to enter.

“Morning, Parson,” said Winston, “I’m glad I to see you. I’d mentioned to Bertha last night I wanted to talk to you.”

“What’s up?” asked the parson, as he stepped out of the way of the door and into some shade.

Winston followed and said, “Well, I know this is kind of delicate, but we need to kind of standardize things with the youth. I know you want us to involve more people in the workings of the ministry, but Sunday night we had almost thirty kids there.”

“That’s great,” said the parson.

“Not quite,” said Winston. “We had thirty kids but Eleanor Rollins, that lady who joined recently, was in charge of furnishing the meal.”

“That’s great, too,” said the parson.

“It’s not great when we didn’t have enough food.”

“Did anybody tell Eleanor how many kids come?”

“I don’t know. It seems to me we need people involved that know these things without the youth workers having to guide them.”

“How many members do we have in the church, Winston?” the parson asked.

“I don’t know, Parson. I guess we have a little over a hundred on the rolls. What’s your point?”

“My point, Winston, is that two things happened last night. One was you ran short of food. The second was a number equivalent to over one-third of the church showed up at the youth meeting. And instead of celebrating the one you’re bitching about the unimportant happening.”

Here's To The Teachers

I write a weekly newspaper column in The Calhoun Times, Calhoun, Georgia. Today, I’m sharing that column here.

The school year is over in the county and will be over in the city at the end of the week. What a year it has been.

For a week or so the teachers will be doing those necessary things to finish out the year. The students will be sleeping in, complaining of chores, reveling in the freedom of summer vacation and showing no evidence of the boredom with summer that is to come.

Picture if you will, then, an almost empty school. Walk down the hallway with me. Hear the echo of our steps along the empty corridors, tapping out a cadence of solitary progression.  Look into the rooms as our progress continues along the empty passage. See the teacher in that room, compiling the report.  Look in this room where he’s reading an assignment written by a student as an end-of-the-term requirement and smiling at the improvement over the course of the year. Over there, in the lab, watch the teacher inventory the chemicals and pack them away for the summer break.  And there, see there, pay attention to the teacher looking out the window, staring toward the horizon. That’s the one who is thinking about calling it quits, getting out of the contract, and going to work for the father-in-law. Peer with me into the seemingly endless hallway of classrooms where lessons were taught, students challenged, tests given, and lives changed.

The school year is over. Deserved vacation has arrived. Some will head to the mountains, others to the beaches; some will stay home and attend to needed projects; others will take summer jobs to supplement their devalued effort.

All will look back on the year and marvel at the things that happened, and smile at the memory of laughter reverberating from a hundred shared moments of frivolity. All will leave this past academic year and step into the summer months having touched lives in thousands of ways that were often unseen and without a doubt underappreciated.

This past year a second grader with green snot dripping toward a puckered lip had his face wiped by a dedicated giver. A middle school child was pointed toward a course of discovery that will someday lead to new inventions and a better society. A high school girl was encouraged to step beyond the present day into a future ripe with opportunity. This past year countless teachers in countless ways embraced, encouraged, and empowered a new generation.

It takes a special person to be a teacher. It takes an even more special person to continue teaching year after year, class after class, matriculation after matriculation without receiving proper recognition, thanks, and certainly adequate compensation.

To the teachers who labored with such dedication this past year, please receive our thanks. Receive our thanks now which should have been given day-by-day as the past ten months progressed. Receive these, our belated thanks. And please accept our apology.

Accept our apology for standing silently by as our government treated you with distain. Accept our apology that we spoke not a word of protest as our governor forced you to take days off without pay and in doing so treated you as though your task is no more important that the most menial state position.  Accept our apology that we asked you to stand before that classroom without our support, without proper appreciation.

Accept our apology, and please show up next year, for without you our society is doomed.

Amen, Reverned Moyers, Amen!

April 30^th is the last segment of your journal, Reverend Bill Moyers. I know there’s a certain presumption on my part in using the adjective “Reverend;” I’m familiar with your stories, told to Terry Gross on an “NPR Fresh Air” segment of how, as a college and serving a small church every other weekend, you inflicted your “opinions on some very patient people.” I know how your path led you away from a pulpit and into politics and journalism, but you, sir, never stopped being the preacher.

“The Lord,” they say, “works in mysterious ways.” And the Almighty surely did so with you. That kid preacher inflicting opinions on patient people found his way to the White House and worked on domestic policy for Lyndon Johnson before becoming his press secretary. You were part of the escalation of the war in Vietnam, although I’ve learned you had your doubts. It was a war of which you later said, “We were wrong so and the country paid a terrible price.” Thank you for that.

From the halls of power you wandered over to the halls of Public Broadcasting, and there, sir, I began to regularly sit in the pews of your sanctuary where you analyzed what was going on about our country and our world. There are many who say you have this unique ability to ask the right questions. They may be right in that assessment, but to my mind your unique ability came from you propensity for asking the God questions. You, yourself, admitted that politics and journalism were a diversion for you. It was in the asking of those questions you preached sermons that reduced those of us who stand in pulpits to babbling babes of homiletics.

Go figure, you were a child of the South, a Southern Baptist child of the South at that, familiar with the stories of the faith and the teachings of Jesus. And yet you never used the Bible as a life jacket but saw in the starkly human characters of the Biblical stories a mirror in which we see ourselves. You titled one of your series “Genesis: A Living Conversation,” and in that series you held up the resources of our faith in a lively and refreshing way. Your introduction to the series spoke of Noah who, you admit, “… hardly behaves the way we’d expect a model of righteousness to behave.” And then you begin the sermon: “His story is full of contradictions and divine mystery – just like most of the stories in Genesis, just like our own.” [www.pbs.org/wnet/genesis]

Other mini sermons popped up throughout your career. I loved the time you told Terry Gross on a “Fresh Air” interview, “Splitting the difference between two opinions does not get you the truth; it gets you another opinion.” And there was that great statement: “If you see an audience of consumers you want to sell them something, but if you see an audience of citizens you want to share something.” I try to remember that one whenever I step into a pulpit.

You also pointed out to us that religion should never be reduced to just another interest group and we should never allow Jesus and Moses to become mere lobbyist.

So on the occasion of the last edition of your journal I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for turning down the position of Chief of Staff to a President. Thanks for turning down the office of Secretary of Education. And thanks for all those programs I’ve watched over the years, those programs that sometimes quietly got me thinking and those programs that slapped me in the face with challenge. Thank you, Reverend Moyers, for all the sermons.

I’ve heard a story about you I hope is true. The story I heard is that once President Johnson, deferring to your being a “Reverend” asked you to say grace at a White House dinner. The story I heard is that everyone bowed their heads and you prayed. When you completed your prayer President Johnson commented, “I asked you to say grace not deliver a pastoral prayer.” And, so the story goes, you replied to the President of the United States, “Mr. President, I wasn’t talking to you.”

Ah, but Reverend Moyers I and many others in your congregation are much better for having sat in the pews as you talked to us. And I truly mean it when I say, "I really enjoyed that Journal, preacher.

Amen, Reverend Moyers, Amen.

This post was plentifully informed by an edition of Fresh Air which presented a collage of interviews Terry Gross had done over the years. That interview is available HERE.

A Date For the Reverend Ms?

The District Task Force on Reducing the Number of Required Meetings was meeting.  The parson having attended a smidgen over 7,000 meetings in the course of his career was participating with a degree of amusement. As such he didn’t say much. But he listened.

In the course of the listening the parson was drawn to a new pastor. He remembered her being ordained two years previous. He had been struck by the enormity of the event for her, evidenced by her almost uncontrollable sobbing when the bishop laid his hands on her head.

Erin Swanson, was in her early thirties. All her life she had wanted to become an ordained minister. Every course she took in college was seen as a pathway to ordination. Seminary became a rite of passage for her. And on the day she heard her name called out to serve her first appointment, all of her struggles had come to fruition.

The parson watched her during the course of the meeting. Every time a date was suggested where the committee could gather for some purpose, she quickly consulted her iPhone calendar and then reported on her availability. Working out a schedule with the Energizer Bunny in the room became a challenge for the other participants. The entire meeting, for the parson, became a variety show staring Erin and her calendar. And during the lunch break the parson had overheard her conversation with another female pastor about the lack of a social life.

When the meeting had adjourned, with the promise that the Task Force on Reducing the  Number of Retired Meetings would meet again, the parson found an opportunity to speak to Erin outside the church.

“So how are things with you these days, Erin?” he asked.

“Wonderful, Parson,” she responded with a smile.

“When’s the last time you had a date?” the parson asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m an old man, Erin, with more years in this church than you have yet to live. So, indulge me. When’s the last time you had a date?”

She looked up toward the sky and replied in a soft voice, “I guess it was the last year of seminary.”

“Nobody has asked you out on a date in two years?”

“Well, Parson, it’s not that. It’s just that there is so much to do at the church. I really don’t have time for a romantic relationship right now.”

“Sure you do.”

“I don’t, Parson,” said Erin, looking toward the ground. “When I gave my life to Christ and answered the call to ministry, I had no idea how demanding the job is.”

“How demanding is it?”

“What? Parson, are you kidding me?”

“No, Erin, I’m not. Actually, I’m making fun of you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell you what, Erin. My son has this friend who’s single. He’s a Christian businessman whose very successful. And I doubt very seriously he is intimidated by a female pastor, because his mother’s one. How about I set you up on a blind date; just to let you get away from the parish for one evening?”

Erin looked at the parson intently for a moment, “I don’t know, Parson. I don’t know if I have an evening I could spare for a date.”

“Okay, Erin,” replied the parson. “I won’t hound you about it. But if you change your mind just let me know.”

“I’ll do that,” she smiled. They both turned to walk to their respective cars.

Halfway to his car the parson turned and yelled out, “Erin, when was that church of yours founded?”

“1842,” she called back. “But it was a tabernacle then.”

“1842,” the parson echoed. “OMG,” he continued in a mocking tone while seeming to count on his fingers, “can you believe that church existed for a 166 years without you fretting over every detail of its life?”

Erin stopped in her tracks and stared at the parson. She seemed to be weighing things. She smiled and called out, “I’ll think about it, Parson. I’ll think about it. But you should tell him I’m an expensive date.”

The Measure of Time

The meeting between the parson and the hospital chaplain had not lasted long. Both had come prepared; both had a busy schedule; both kept on task, and the meeting accomplished its goal in record time. The parson headed across the central lobby on his way to the church where he had to prepare for a talk to a men’s group in the evening.

He was two-thirds across the area when a voice called out, “Parson, Parson.” 

Turning toward the sound the parson saw Agnes Howard. She and her family had been members of a church he served twenty years ago.

“Hello, Agnes,” the parson greeted as he hugged her. He remembered her wedding and how she insisted it be a thoroughly religious occasion. Holding her at arm’s length the parson proclaimed, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Oh, Parson, you shouldn’t be telling lies. Three kids have made sure I’ve changed a little.”

“Well, from where I’m standing it was all for the better,” the parson smiled. “What brings you to this hospital?”

“Daddy’s here,” she said. “He was on his way to visit Aunt Helen and started having chest pains. He pulled into the rest area on the interstate and called 911. They are making sure he has stabilized before sending him back to his own doctors. These folks have really been good to him. You don’t suppose you could go back and see him? I know it would mean so much to him.”

The parson agreed he’d go back and visit Curtis. He headed down the familiar hallway with Agnes at his side.

In the hospital room, Curtis Howard seemed delighted to see the parson. For several minutes they talked about old times and caught each other up on their histories. Then the parson asked how things were going at the church.

“I guess they’re going okay,” said Curtis. “We seem to be surviving despite that young whipper-snapper the bishop sent out way last summer.”

“What’s the problem with your pastor?”

“He thinks he’s so busy, that’s what. He’s always on the run, can’t seem to sit still for more than five minutes.”

“What do you mean, Curtis?” the parson asked.

“He was here this morning. The man didn’t even sit down. He talked to me for maybe five minutes, maybe ten, and then he had a prayer and left. The Reverend Mr. Busy is what he is.”

“Curtis,” the parson asked, “how often has he been up to visit you.”

“Well, he’s been here all three days I’ve been here. But if you add all them up you don’t have one good visit.”

“Curtis, it’s at least eighty-five miles one way to visit you.”

“That’s about right.”

“So, between two and three hours out of his day to visit you is not enough?”

“He was only here ten or fifteen minutes, Parson. “

The parson threw in the towel. He said, “Let me have a prayer with you, Curtis. I’m really busy today and have to get going.”