Questing Parson

Life, Death, and Special People

The parson had known her close to twenty years. Long ago, when she was a single girl, working in the growing IT industry, she moved into a house seven doors from the parson's church. It was then she became a lurker.

She was a lurker but not in the lurk around the blog sense. She lurked around the parson's church. She might have attended a couple of times in the decade the parson served that parish, but, if she did, the parson couldn't remember it. Nevertheless, she was spiritual; she was a seeker; she was what the parson termed a “non-church going Christian.” She wasn't afraid to ask questions, hard questions about God and Jesus, and sometimes she asked unanswerable questions about the organized church.

It took a while for her to discover that right fellow. But he was the right fellow, the very right fellow. The parson married them at a wonderful celebration at a country retreat not far from where the parson would retire.

When the parson did retire, he didn't seem them as much. But there came that day when the call came, “We're pregnant!” There was rejoicing, anticipation, trepidation. And within months they brought their child to the country where the parson supplied the pulpit in his retirement to be baptized. There was lunch following the baptism accompanied with Ms. Parson rocking the baby in a rocker on the front porch of the restaurant, rocking him and rocking him and rocking him, cooing and smiling and, unknown to the parson then, creating a precious memory for him. A memory she too had and which she shared with the parson.

Two years later they were back. The second child was baptized. Lunch was shared again. Ms. Parson was happy to have another child to rock.

It wasn't long after the tragic call came. Her fellow, her knight in shining armor, had cancer. It was a horrible cancer. It was a devastating cancer. There was no cure. The parson and she shared flowing tears. The parson and she talked a lot about bad things happening to good people. But there was no adequate answer. “Why do these things happen?” she asked. The parson told her he didn't know.

There was hope. There was an experimental treatment he could volunteer for. He did. It wasn't the easiest treatment to be borne, but he endured it and he got better. He was better for a few years. And then it happened. Things when from bad to worse. The boys were now five and seven. Their daddy was dying.

The phone call came. The parson answered. She told the parson he was home now. Hospice had been called. The doctors said maybe it would be two weeks. She told the parson she thought it would be two days. The parson told her he'd be there the next day.

It was a beautiful spring day in the inner city of Atlanta. The youngest boy met the parson at the door. He wasn't in kindergarten that day. Her high school friend who was there to help her told the parson she'd let them know he was there. So the parson and the five-year-old played games on the floor. Then the hospice nurse came out. She talked a while. Then the oxygen technician came by. Then the contractor remodeling the basement came up. Then the ….

Finally, she came out. She told the parson they'd just given him some morphine and he was out of it. She and the parson went out on the deck, into the bright spring sun, the budding flowers, and the promise of new life. The dog accompanied them, assuring their conversations would punctuated by periodic tossing of the tennis balls which were quickly retrieved and dropped at their feet.

That conversation bounced from one thing to another, from talks of death, of her acceptance of what was coming, of the fact she'd already been grieving for years. They talked of funny things that had happened back when she lurked around the parson's parish. They talked about the children and the counseling they'd been put into to prepare them for what was coming. They laughed about children, and Christians, and the absurdity of it all, of the wedding when the parson danced a jig with her eighty-year-old grandmother.

Four hours later the parson left. He headed home, knowing he'd retrace his steps soon to return and talk some more, if she wanted; but to be there because he wanted. Navigating through the traffic the parson thought of how she was so typical of the new Christians. Church membership is secondary to faith. She is full of faith; she is well-acquainted with God. The parson remembered how when she and her fellow, having not seen the parson for a year or so, were there when Ms. Parson died, being pastors to their pastor.

She'll lose her fellow soon. The parson is experienced with what that will feel like. She'll go on, probably facing it much better than did the parson. And maybe that's the miracle of it all: even in the shadow of death life goes on.

Strong Women, God Bless 'Em

I love women. Okay, there it is, right out in the open. I love women. Who can say when this love affair started? I honestly don't know.

Maybe it was Francis. Francis was that drop dead gorgeous babysitter my parents hired for my brother. Somehow they didn't think I was capable of taking care of my brother when I was twelve. He was five then. So, they hired Francis to babysit my brother. And I would watch Francis babysit my brother. And after she put my brother to bed I would watch Francis watching television. Did I mention Francis was drop dead gorgeous?

We moved from the town where Francis babysat my brother. When we moved I'd grown beyond my childish ways. Maybe the reason I love women has something to do with Kay. Kay lived up the street from me in the new town to which we moved. Kay was something else. Kay taught me the joys of swapping spit.

I'm going to detour from this history of my progression through the various stages of learning to appreciate women now. This blog carries a PG-13 rating. I'll just give you a quick snapshot. That snapshot acknowledges the obvious fact that the men and women of my generation are much better lovers than the generations that followed us. We were more practiced, more attentive, never in a hurry. We certainly should be. We spent ten years in foreplay.

It was the Women In the World Summit 2012, just recently ended, that prompted my journey back in time remembering, as Willie, said, “all the girls I've loved before.” Things have really changed since those days when Kay and I were coming of age. Women have truly come a long way.

I was fortunate to grow up in the family I did. In an age when women were perceived as mere appendages of their husbands, the women in my family actually ran the show. I don't think I realized that until I was in my thirties. I'm sure my late realization was a direct result of those women's unique ability to let the men in the family think they were in charge.

Mama, my grandmother, had a fourth grade education. When my grandfather died she carried on for thirty plus years, teaching us lessons we never learned in the universities we attended. My great aunt, Mama's sister, when her husband died kept the auto garage he owned, the largest in Atlanta, running with even more success than he enjoyed. Looking back on it I can't help but wonder how many city blocks of downtown Atlanta my aunt owned.

And then there was my mother. Mother's birthday was last week. I have to admit I didn't realize what day it was until I read the acknowledgment on my brother's Facebook page. (But, then again, Mother always did love him best.) [:-), brother]

My mother was a child of the 1920s, and I have no doubt that she and my Aunt Virginia danced until the dawn at the dance clubs of Atlanta. She was a beauty. She was confident. And she had this view of life, far ahead of her day, that gender should be no impediment to whatever one wanted to accomplish. Mother should have had daughters to offset the troubles my brother and I caused. Mother was to be respected. No, let me rephrase that: Mother demanded respect. My mother had no hesitation of engaging in a wrestling match, a real wrestling match, with any adolescent male ignorant enough to think she wouldn't whip his ass in front of his onlooking peers.

The Women in the World Summit, as I said, got me thinking about those genteel Southern ladies who shaped me. The women who are their children have excelled, one was in the first class of ordained women in the Church of England, and one a successful businesswoman. As for my brother and me, we were feminist long before someone trotted out the word.

It was a joy to see that parade of twenty-first century women speaking and being interviewed at the summit. It gives hope for the world. I can attest from personal experience that we're all better when we're nurtured and inspired by strong, liberated women.

I got a hint that the strong woman will continue in the next generation of our family the other day. I asked my granddaughter if her boyfriend was going to be at a family function. “That won't happen,” she told me. I asked her why. “Look,” she said, “I'm a fourteen year-old woman; harmones are raging in my body; I have enough dealing with my moods. I don't have the energy to deal with some male's moodiness.”

So here's the end of this rambling remembrance of strong women and my affirmation that we'll be better still as humans when women are finally treated as equals in every aspect of life.

Thanks Mother; thanks Mama; thanks Aunt Virginia. And watch out world, my granddaughters are headed your way!

 

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Only Custom Made Equipment for the Parson's Grandchildren

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Well, hello, yourself. How in the world are you doing?” I immediately recognized the voice. It belonged to one of the other grandparents, you know the type of grandparent of which I speak. It was the mother of my child’s spouse. She means well but in playing the role of really great grandparent some have it and some have less than it.

“I’m really doing well. How about you?”

“I’m doing good. You know it was such a treat to have the kids come visit from Connecticut. Gracious, I don’t know about you, but I don’t seem to realize how much I miss them until they are ready to go back. And those children, those precious grandkids, aren’t they absolutely wonderful?

“They are that. And that younger one sure got your looks.”

“My, my, aren’t you the complimentary one. And I know you’re being gracious, but thanks for making an old woman feel good.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I said.

At this point I was getting a little anxious as to what this phone call was about. Look, it may not be the best feature of our society, but the truth is the daughter’s mother doesn’t make phone calls to the husband’s father just for the purpose of swapping platitudes. And yet, like my son, I am a Southern gentleman. I let the conversation continue.

“Could you believe the way the younger one has grown?” she asked.

I informed her that I couldn’t believe it either. And then just to trump her I said, “Well, I think the older one is certainly proving himself to be smarter than his parents.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she responded.

There was a pause in the conversation. I definitely got the impression she was mulling over what to say next. I waited. As I’ve intimated above the conversations between the two of us have been sparse during the ten years of our children’s marriage. They were usually confined to coordination of who would pick up or take to the airport whom.

“The grandchildren really seemed to have had a great time at your house.” she said.

“I thought they did, too,” I responded. “They were nonstop the whole time they were here.”

“I know. It wasn’t ten minutes after you dropped them off at our house than they were sound asleep in the den. They really got worn out. You really keep them active.”

“I enjoy the time with them,” I said, wondering where this conversation was going.

There was a pause. Then she spoke again. “You know, the kids said you have the best slide they’ve ever been on.”

“Did they? That’s nice to know. They did seem to have a good time playing on it.”

“Do you mind my asking where you bought it?” she asked. Then she added, “I’d like to get one for our house.”

Now in this life some secrets need not be shared. “Actually, I can’t,” I said. “It was custom made for them.”

“You had a slide custom made for your grandchildren?”

“I did.”

There was another long pause before she said, “Well, I just wanted to thank you for dropping them off.”

I told her it was no problem. She hung up. I was grateful for the call. It reminded me to go out in the front yard and retrieve the cardboard box the kids had been using to slide down the bank that is my front yard.

When They Come

The meeting adjourned. The parson tucked his notes away and headed out toward his car.

“Parson,” greeted Fred Abney, “how are you? You must have been sitting in the back. I didn't see you.”

“I was in the back,” Fred, the parson confessed. “Good to see you. How's things on your side of the district?”

“About the same as they've always been,” said Fred. “You know that church, Parson. They're never going to change.”

'I was thinking you might get some new members since they opened that new factory and the new elementary school.”

“I thought so, too, Parson. But it hasn't happened. We really need some families with children. That would be a God-send. But, well I don't know what we're going to do.”

“How many kids did you have at Sunday School this morning?” the parson asked.

“Not one, Parson. Not one.”

The parson shook his head. “That must be a real disappointment for the children's classes teachers.”

“Oh, I told you, Parson, we don't have any children coming. So, we don't have any teachers.”

“Fred,” the parson smiled, “have you ever given any thought to the possibility you haven't planned on any kids coming.”

Exceeded Dreams

The parson settled down in his favorite chair to write a daily blog. He sat, with computer in his lap, waiting for the ideas to come, trying to recall some recent experience that could evolve into a parson's story.

His mind wandered back over the day. It had been a strange day. The parson's day was fairly well defined by the strange congregation at which the parson is pastor. There had no pastoral expectations today. There had been to phone calls from church members. The word had gotten around the parish the parson was going to spend the day with his sons. His congregation let him do that to the fullest.

The older son and the parson's daughter-in-love had been using the parson's car the two weeks they came home for the holidays. Older son drove up to the parson's house, picked him up, and they headed south for a suburb of the really big city. There in the historic district of an old railroad station town they joined company with younger son and slipped into a booth of a tavern. It was a day of shepherd's pie and Irish stew, and some ungodly concoction older son ordered, along with some most fine beverage. The University of Georgia / Michigan State game played on the television. But they didn't watch.

The parson didn't talk that much, except for the phone call. He listened to his sons talking. He marveled at their maturity, the depth of their intelligence, and their accomplishments already so prevalent in their young lives. One was an international dance star; one was setting new standards in education through innovative teaching that utilized 21st century technology.

The phone call which interrupted the male gathering was from the oldest child, the daughter. She and the parson talked about a new brochure for her ministry. She is an author and an accomplished motivational speaker.

Late in the afternoon the time to depart came. Younger son drove older son to meet up with his wife and kids to be taken to the airport for their departure back to their home in the picturesque village in Connecticut. The parson headed back through the really big city northward to his little village and his little parish where Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion waited.

The parson shut the computer down. He pulled out his Kindle Fire, stuck the earphones in his ears and listened to Brandi Carilie sing of “Dreams.” As Brandi, the parson had dreams. But sometimes children exceed a parent's dreams.

When Brandi sang the last note of “Dreams” the parson retired from the day a truly blessed man.

Resoultions

Feel Good Mystery

“Don't you look pretty today,” the parson said to Audrey, a ten-year-old he'd bumped into at the store. “That's a really nice dress.”

“Thanks, Parson,” she replied. “I got this dress for Christmas.”

Audrey's Mom smiled at the conversation and moved over to a section across the aisle.

“Well, we have to go to this fancy dress up thing. I don't know it is, but Mom and Dad said I have to go, and because it's dress up they gave me this dress early. Kinda funny, huh? I get an early Christmas present because I have to go to a Christmas party.”

“Pretty funny,” the parson responded.

“So, how's your brother.? He's not with you?”

“Nope, he's with Dad. They're getting haircuts.”

“Well, I hope you have fun at that fancy dress up thing. I bet you'll have the prettiest dress there.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “Parson, can I ask you something?”

The parson leaned forward. “Sure.”

“All this stuff, you know, presents, dresses, parties, going to everybody's house, all that stuff. That's not about Christmas, is it?”

The parson smiled, “No, Audrey, that's not about Christmas; it's about people.”

“And people trying to make themselves feel good, right?”

“Right!” the parson said, grateful for a fresh insight.

“Know what I figured out?”

“What?”

“Parties and presents don't make you feel good.”

“I think you're right,” said the parson. “What does make you feel good?”

“Well, I'm not sure, but I think it's different for adults and children.”

The parson started to respond but Audrey's mother walked up.

“Hi, Parson, hope she wasn't bothering you.”

“Not at all,” the parson said. “We were just talking about some of life's strange mysteries.”

Everyone Gets To Sing

The parson headed toward the really, really big city way down the road. It was raining. The traffic was heavy. Along the way sections of the interstate resembled a parking lot. But he persevered. It was an important day.

Number two grandchild (that's chronological order) was performing that night. She was to be the soloist in the Sixth Grade Winter Concert. It was an event not to be missed and certainly worth the traffic and rain. The parson pushed on constantly glancing at the estimated time of arrival indicated on his GPS device. He'd left thirty minutes earlier than first planned. But, now, with the standstill traffic, it was going to be close.

The parson walked into the Middle School Cafetorium with four minutes to spare. Other grandparents, daughter, son-in-law, and, more importantly, next-to-last grandchild were there. The parson nodded at the others and held his arms wide for the anticipated leap of the three-and-a-half year old who was not sprinting toward him. He swooped her up, hugged her tightly and headed to an empty seat on the row the family had appropriated.

She plopped herself into the parson's lap. “Look,” she said, “this is my Dad's cellphone. Watch me play this game.”

The parson watched. A family member spoke to him. He looked toward the sound of the voice with an expression that spoke to who was most important in this exchange.

“See,” she proclaimed. The cellphone screen now sowed a penguin, apparently a sign of victory. She squirmed in the parson's lap, getting comfortable for another game.

The members of the Sixth Grade Chorus now began to file into the room. The parson watched intently, seeking the familiar face. There she was, on the first row. There were close to a hundred kids in the chorus. She looked so diminutive in comparison to many of the others. She saw the parson and the other members of her family. Her attempt to remain “professional” wilted as her familiar crooked smile pulled the corners of her lips upward.

“Where's my sister?” asked the lap squirming one.

“There. Look right between these chairs and you'll see her.”

“I see her,” she proclaimed. “She's going to sing in a minute.”

“Shhhh,” came the sound to the parson's left. It was a the son-in-law. The parson presented him with his practiced “She's with me now, butt out” look.

“My sister looks pretty,” said the little one.

“She does,” said the parson. “Do you know why all those other kids are up there on the stage with her? I thought your sister was going to sing.”

“Well,” she replied, turning her hand in a palms up position that seemed to indicate: This is an easy question. “Look, this is their school, too.”

“Yes,” she replied. “They all get to sing.”

“You mean everyone gets to sing even if they can't sing as good as your sister?”

She now rooted herself around so that she was facing the parson. “Yes,” she said, it's like your church.”

 

Pastoral Counseling Of A Sort

The annual Ornament Swap Party was winding down. The only folks still at the church were in the kitchen cleaning, putting pots and pans away, and doing what had to be done. The parson was helping by drying the dishes. Helen Ponder, a young lady of eleven, going on twenty-five, pulled on his sleeve.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” said the parson, “what's on your mind, Helen?”

“Not here,” she whispered and nodded her head in the direction of her mother who was sweeping the floor.

The parson immediately dried his hands on a dish cloth and pointed toward his study. Helen led the way.

“Okay, now we're in private,” said the parson. “What's up?”

Helen plopped herself down on the sofa. “Okay, this is one of those pastor counseling things, right? And that means anything we say here in your office is just between you and me. I mean, it's a kinda secret, right?”

“That's probably right, Helen,” said the parson. “It's right as long as you don't tell me anything that I think your parents really need to know. I can't tell you I won't tell your parents, but I won't do that unless it's absolutely necessary. Okay?”

Helen stared at the floor a moment. “Okay, I guess it's okay. I trust you.”

“So,” the parson asked again, “What's up?”

“What's up is my parents.”

“What's up with your parents?”

“Okay, Parson, I'm really worried about my parents.”

“What are you worried about?”

Helen sucked in her breath and then let it out in an audible sigh. “What I'm worried about is they way they act like nothing is wrong.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Well, yeah, Parson. Something is wrong. My dad hasn't had a job in almost a year. And I think it's just making him feel terrible. I mean he doesn't smile very much anymore. And he and Mom are arguing a lot.”

The parson leaned forward from his rocking chair. “Don't you think that your dad not having a job this long would make things stressful?”

“I know that, Parson. I understand what's going on. I mean, I talked to my aunt about it. I know about all this stuff about my Dad not feeling like he's worth what he used to be. And I understand that because he is feeling this way he and my Mom are going to fuss a lot.”

The parson stared at this remarkable young lady. Then he said, “So, what's troubling you?”

“Okay,” she said as she sucked in another breath and slowly let it out, “here's the thing. They act like I'm some little kid that doesn't have a clue what's going on. They act like I can't understand. I mean, do you know my Dad has never actually told me he lost his job. Can you believe that? I go to school and my Dad is there. I come home from school and my Dad is there. I'm not a stupid woman, Parson.”

The parson smiled. “You know, Helen, they may not be telling you because they don't want you to worry.”

Helen seemed to be taking inventory of the parson' bookshelf before she answered. When she did, she said, “So, my Dad just hangs around the house playing video games. My Mom is fussing about everything. And we're eating a lot of hamburger helper, but they don't want me to worry? Do you see why I'm worried? I mean, well, Parson, you know what I mean.”

“I do, Helen,” said the parson. “I do. Where's your Dad?”

“He's out in the car waiting for Mom.”

“Okay, why don't you go tell your Mom and Dad I want to talk to them.”

“So you're going to do that pastor counseling thing, right?”

The parson didn't laugh. He even forced the smile from forming. “Actually, Helen,” said the parson, “I think I'm just going to make it possible for you to talk to them. Does that sound like a plan?”

“That's a plan,” said Helen. “I'll get them.”

Practice Makes Perfect

The parson was hanging out with his friend, Dr. Gary, pastor of Saint John's United Methodist in Augusta, Georgia, the oldest still worshiping congregation in Georgia. Gary and the parson had been friends in seminary. That friendship was cemented when the two discovered a phrase in the school's catalog that read, “Class attendance is not a perquisite for a passing grade.” The two had taken that literally and adjourned to the pizza establishment across the street.

Gary was on his way to speak at a church in Tennessee. He'd stopped to visit his old friend along the way. Now the two sat on a bank overlooking some soccer fields not far from the parson's abode. Below them a game between two girl's U-14 teams was in progress. The parson watched intently as he and Gary talked. Two of the girls below attended his church.

The parson and his guest had enough time to catch up on their individual activities since last seeing each other as well as share plans for coming years. And then the game was over. The girls the parson had come to see were victorious. He and Gary waited to greet them.

“Hi, Parson,” shouted Susan, who played sweeper on the team. “Thanks for coming.”

“It was fun,” said the parson. “This is my friend, Gary. He was really impressed with your team.”

“Thank you,” Susan said to Gary.

“You're a good player,” Gary replied.

Rhonda, Susan's best friend and a midfielder on the team now ran up.

“Hi, Parson,' said Rhonda. “Hi, I'm Rhonda,” she said to Gary.

“I'm Gary, I'm glad to meet you,” Gary replied.

“Did you ask him?” Rhonda said to Susan.

“Not yet,” said Susan.

“Ask me what?” the parson asked.

“Okay,” said Susan, “you used to coach soccer in college, right?”

“I did,” the parson admitted.

“So, if Rhonda and I wanted to get a soccer scholarship for college, what will we have to do?” 

“Make good grades,” said the parson.

Susan smiled, “I know that, Parson. I'm talking about a soccer scholarship.”

“I am, too.” said the parson.

“Okay, okay. You sound like Mom. But what else?”

“You have to master the basics,” the parson said.

“Like what?” asked Rhonda.

“Well,” the parson asked. “How many times can you juggle the ball without missing.”

“Maybe twenty,” said Susan.

“Yeah, twenty or sometimes thirty,” Rhonda said.

“Keep practicing until you can do it a couple hundred times,” the parson replied.

“But, Parson,” Rhonda protested. “You don't ever have to juggle the ball that much in a game.”

“You're right,” the parson said, “but if you can juggle it two hundred times in practice you'll always be able to do it one time in the game.”

The parson and Gary rose from their seats, brushed the grass off their butts and headed to the car. Halfway there, Gary commented. “I don't know squat about soccer. But I know a good sermon illustration when I hear it.”