Questing Parson

Physicians and Healers

Dear Dr. Pittman:

A little birdie told me you read these little epistles. It may surprise you to see your name at the top of this one. There's a reason –

I've been in counseling, grief counseling, with two folks who lost their spouses in the last few months. In the course of my conversations with them, I've been shocked at the utter lack of compassion on the part of some. Such as one relating her doctor told her, “You'll get over it in time.”

I just wanted to write this to let you know you're a special breed. You probably don't remember my visit for my regularly scheduled checkup a couple of months after Ms. Parson died. I'll never forget it. When I arrived at your office things went as they normally do. I sat down in the waiting room to read on my Kindle and to listen to the religious music you always have playing on the speakers. (We need to talk about that sometime.) After a short while, a very short while in doctor's office minutes, they called me back. Your nurse took my blood pressure and asked me if I was still taking the same meds. I told her I was. And she took me back to the examination room. That's when it got different.

You walked in. You sat down. And you said, “Let's talk. Some things are more important than your blood pressure or cholesterol levels.” And you talked to me. You talked to me for forty-five minutes. You invited me to tell you stories about Ms. Parson. You shared your memories. And you know what, Doctor? I left there much more whole than when I walked in.

It's been about two years to the day since that visit. Funny, the pastoral counseling with the others would bring that day to memory right now. But I just wanted to thank you for that time, that day. You know what I mean – the extra time; you never take forty-five minutes with a patient unless it's serious.

There's a difference in you and some other doctors I know. You as well as them have the initials “M.D.” behind your name. You as well as they are physicians, licensed by the state to practice medicine. The difference, Dr. Pittman, is why I drive twenty-five miles one way to see you. The difference is you are a healer.

Beyond the Headlines

One was standing; one was sitting, leaning back on a large backpack. Beside the reclining one were two dogs, both brown in color, well groomed and, as the lack of a leash indicated, obedient. They were at the top of the southbound exit of I-75 at Highway 53. The one standing held a neatly printed with majic marker sign that indicated their need of food. The driver of the car in front of me stuck his hand out the window. It held some bills. The one with the sign nodded his appreciation as he also spoke obvious words of gratitude. The light turned green. The traffic moved. I hoped the fellow had given him a twenty.

Down the expressway, on the same day, speeding along, I noticed her. She was standing near the fence that marked the border between the interstate right-of-way and the pasture. Her little girl stood beside her. They both watched intently at the man, whose pickup truck was parked a bit in front of their minivan. He was on his knees, twisting with effort to remove the lugs holding the flattened tire. They were seen only for a moment as I whizzed by, but it was long enough to note they were hispanic and he was not.

He pulled into the church parking lot, got out of his car, introduced himself and said, “I live up in Ellijay. Wow, that tornado really made a mess of things. I thought I'd bring a truckload of good clothes down so you can give them to anyone who needs them.”

He's in his late seventies. While a non-assuming man, he is large of stature. His caloused hands witness to long hours of physical toil; the tan face speaks of a life outside. The confidence spewed forth in his demeanor, his giat, his mere presence shout success. It's late afternoon as he approaches the white frame house located in the western corner of the county. He knocks. The doors is opened by a smile that possesses a fourteen-year-old boy. Inside, the mother greets him and then disappears into another room. He and the fourteen-year-old sit down at the kitchen table. The math book is placed to the side. The boy slides a graded test paper from the pages of the book. They both smile. And then after a high five they get to the task of learning how to balance algebraic equations. It's a weekly occurrence. It's a boy who won't drop out; it may be a life saved.

She's stands at the kitchen counter snapping green beans which are then placed in the pot. The potatos are then prepared, the chicken then baked. And when it's all complete it's placed in a picnic basket which is carried to the car. She drives a good fifteen minutes acorss the county on her weekly trek. The basket of goodies are delivered to the widower. He's almost ninety. He lives alone, having out lived his wife and most of his immediate family. There are grandchildren but they live far away. He's grateful for her visits.

None of these things appeared in the paper. They didn't appear in the paper because they're not news. They're not news because they are normal events that happen every day. It is precisely because these are the normal things that happen in our days we as a people will always overcome adversity. Our story is not in headlines but the ordinary.

Beyond the Five Stages

“Parson,” said Joel Thompson, a middle-aged pastor at a First Countyseat Church, “would you mind if I asked you some questions about losing Ms. Parson?”

The parson stopped putting the papers back in his briefcase. He'd been a participant in a study group with Joel. They'd sat across from each other during the session. Ms. Parson had died two years, one month and fourteen days ago. It was well past the time people mentioned Ms. Parson to him. The parson sat back down in his seat. He looked up at Joel. “Sure, Joel, go ahead.”

Joel resumed his seat across the table from the parson. He said, “I realize this could still be painful for you. But I need to understand the grieving process better and with you having lost Ms. Parson and the wife before her, well, I thought you could help me.”

The parson listened. He didn't respond.

“Anyway, here's the deal. I have this lady in the church. She was, in years back, the backbone of the church. Her husband died suddenly three years ago. He was a really great person. I understand how she misses him. I understand the hole that must be in her life. But, somehow, I sense there's more. I just can't get a handle on it.

“Here's the thing, Parson. I watch you. I knew Ms. Parson. I know how much in love the two of you were. And, I guess, on your part, still are. But, well, here you are at this meeting. You were the speaker at that conference last month. I know there are projects in your church that have been started since Ms. Parson died. It seems to me you're moving on with your life. But this lady in my church. She just seems to be stuck where she is. She doesn't seem to want to, well, she just doesn't seem to want to live.”

The parson was silent. “I'm sorry, Parson,” said Joel. “I didn't mean to cause you further grief.”

The parson smiled. “No, Joel, it's not that you caused me further grief. It's just you reminded me of me. Let me tell you where this lady is. You know, when we take all those seminars and maybe seminary classes on grieving and learn about the five stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance – we think that sums up the process. But there's another stage one has to go through once you get through the five stages. I suspect that's where the lady in your church is now.”

“What's that?” asked Joel.

“The hardest part isn't letting go,” said the parson. “The hardest part is starting over.”

Is There A Way to Have a Civil Conversation Between the Religious Right and Left?

Krista Tippett, in this unedited video, moderates a conversation between Jim Daly, President of Focus on the Family, and Gabe Lyons, founder of Q: Ideas for Common Good.  -  This is a compelling discussion with implications for all of us.

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.”

Vicki Garvey - Reflection on Compassion

Insensitive Church People

The parson and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, had just competed their daily trek around the outskirts of the Quik Trip, America's Excellent Convenience and Gas facility, and in this case Truck Stop, also. It was a daily ritual that began a few days after the parson found Charlie Brown almost dead from starvation about a mile from the place years ago.

Walk completed, Charlie Brown hopped into the car to await the parson's journey inside to acquire his daily portion of cappuccino. The parson had just filled his cup when, turning, he encountered Bill Elder, the pastor of a church just twenty miles south.

“Morning, Bill,” the parson greeted.

“Parson,” exclaimed Bill, as he spun around from filling a bag with doughnuts. “Great to see you. What brings you this way?”

The parson explained his daily walk with Charlie Brown. He then inquired of Bill how things were going at his church.

“You know, Parson,” said Bill, “it's funny you should ask that. I mean, everything is going well, I suppose, but I'm so fed up with those people and their insensitivity I can't see straight.”

The parson directed Bill toward a back area of the facility and asked, “What's the problem?”

“Well, Barry Sullivan died. You knew Barry Sullivan, right?”

“I'm not sure I did,” said the parson.

“Well, It thought you might have. He was really active in things about ten years ago.”

“I moved here about ten years ago,” the parson said. “Maybe I just didn't have the opportunity.”

“Well, anyway. Barry died. And the attendance at his service was horrible, I thought. I mean the man was a backbone of the church for so long. Now, the church was full. But there were a lot of the members who weren't there; and I think it was insensitive and I'm having a hard time getting beyond it.”

The parson didn't say anything for a moment.

“So tell me, Parson. Don't you think it's kinda insensitive for these folks not to express their sympathy for someone like that?”

“I do,” said the parson. “I do. It's inexcusable.”

“I'm glad you agree,” Bill said as he munched down on one of the doughnuts. A bit of filling squirted over to the right side of his chin. It rested there. “That makes me feel a bit better.”

The two headed to the cashier to pay for their treats. After walking outside, the parson turned to Bill and asked, “Did you hear about Henry Holberg's wife passing away?”

“I read about it in the concerns they send out from the Bishop's office. That was really terrible. Quite unexpected. Henry must be devastated.”

“I can tell you from experience, Bill. He is. Tell me, wasn't Henry on your committee when you came before the Board of Ministry for ordination?”

“He was. He was really helpful, too.”

The parson reached for his car door. Charlie Brown, sitting up in the back seat, cocked his head. “Do you mind, Bill, if I ask you a question?”

Sure, Parson,” said Bill.

“Henry's wife, did you go to her service?”

“Well, no, I didn't, Parson. I think I was busy with something that day.”

“I see,” said the parson.

“But you did send a card or call him?”

Bill stared at the parson. He stared a long time. He turned. He walked away.

The Sunday Morning Shakedown

The parson had come to church early on Sunday morning. He'd prepared a nice, he thought, breakfast, eggs, sausage, bacon, biscuits, for those who would make it to Sunday school. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. There was a bit left over as the attendance was off a bit. But all seemed to have enjoyed and were now about to head to their various classes.

It was at that time the parson made his way back into the fellowship hall to grab a cup of decaf. Florence was sitting at one of the tables consuming a large portion of the vittles.

“Morning Florence,” the parson said, as he headed toward the table with the decaf pot.

“Morning, Parson,” said Florence. “They said you cooked this morning. You know what, you're a really good cook. What did you do with these eggs? They are really good. I think you put the exact amount of pepper in them. Hey, did you cook these with butter?”

The parson looked back over his shoulder at Florence. He said nothing. He poured his coffee and headed to the media room behind the sanctuary. Earlier he'd discovered that somehow the scripture lesson had been left out. He needed to add it before the service began. Florence watched him head that way.

The parson had almost completed his updating of the media when Florence plopped herself in the last pew of the sanctuary. It was the pew in front of the media room. The door was open.

“You know something, Parson?” asked Florence.

“No, Florence, I don't. But I bet you're going to tell me.”

“Well, I thought I might,” said Florence. “You know I need new brake shoes on my van. So, I thought I might be able to sweep up the fellowship hall or maybe wash the dishes after church. Then you'd be able to go about your business without any hassle. I mean, look at it this way: You'd get the kitchen cleaned; the Lord would see me giving something back to this church that helps me so much; and I'd get a real kick out of helping out the church. And if you see it my way, I'm thinking maybe $30 would hold me over until my government check comes in at the end of the week. So, what do you think?”

The parson paused his work on the computer. He looked up at Florence and said, “What I think, Florence, is I'm tired of giving you money for your van, especially when it's something you took care of two months ago. You need to keep a record of what you beg money for. I gave you money to fix the brake shoes on your van three months ago.”

“I know that,” said Florence. “Did you think I'd be ungrateful on that? Goodness, Parson, I know you gave me money for that. The thing is, Ed Grimes did the brake job, and if you know Ed Grimes he can't be trusted. So, I had someone else put look at them and they told me Ed kinda did me bad. So, I need the $30 to fix what Ed Grimes messed up.”

The parson, during this exchange, had been able to get the scriptures on the slides for the media presentation. Now, he realized the colors on the lyrics of the hymns and prayers was not sharp enough. He needed to adjust for that.

“Look, Florence,” he said. “Here's $20, now don't come asking me for money until November 20th. Deal?”

“Well, that seems like a deal to me.”

“Okay, Florence. You staying for church?”

“Goodness, gracious, no, Parson. Look at me. I don't fit in here. Nope, but I'll see you tomorrow at Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen.”

“Good-bye, Florence.”

“Good-bye, Parson,” she called out as she headed down the center aisle. “God bless.” She got to the side door of the sanctuary and paused. She shouted across the sanctuary to the parson. “Hey, Parson, I don't think them people in Sunday school are going to be able to eat all that stuff you cooked. How about I get me a couple of Tupperware things out of the cabinet and take the balance home. It would be sorta a takeout. I'll bring the containers back tomorrow. Okay?”

The parson didn't say anything. But he knew there would be no leftovers to put up after Sunday school.

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.

Why She Keeps Coming Back

The parson began the Sabbath with his plan to ensure he'd stay at the church another year or two. He arrived early, slapped the sausage patties on the grill, smacked down two packs of bacon on another grill, mixed the pancake mix, scrambled the eggs, and generally provided a pre-Sunday school feast for the membership. The parson's strategy involved his theory that preachers are a dime a dozen, but a parson who can cook is hard to come by.

The feast ended. The Sunday school began. The parson retreated to a quiet corner to review his sermon. Halfway through the Sunday school hour he headed back to the kitchen to get something to drink. As he filled his mug he heard someone in the fellowship hall, part of the adult class that met there, chime out, “There's some food on the table, Florence, get some.”

The parson peered through the pass-thru window and spied Florence dishing up a hearty meal. He pondered for two seconds what brought her to the church so early on a Sunday morning. It was on the third second of his pondering he surmised why. Florence needed some assistance. Florence was the most gracious but persistent beggar the parson and the parson's congregation had ever encountered.

Apparently, Florence left after consuming the parson's gourmet breakfast. But when the service was over and the parson walked back to the fellowship hall Florence was back.

“Parson,” she called out, “I need to talk with you.”

“What do you need?” the parson asked.

“I need some groceries. I've figured it up and I think thirty dollars would cover it.”

“I'm not going to give you any money, Florence,” the parson said. “But I will buy you some groceries. Make me a list and we'll talk about what I'll buy or not buy.”

The parson headed back into the sanctuary to talk with a member about a project. When he returned, Florence held up a paper towel on which she'd written out her list. The parson sat down and the two negotiated what he would and would not purchase for her. Florence was diabetic and her choice of groceries did not always enhance her good health.

“Okay, Florence,” said the parson. “I'll have this for you at the Soup Supper tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” she said. “Hey, do you think you could help me out with some brake repairs on my truck.”

“Not today,” said the parson. “It's Sunday. The bank is closed.”

Florence looked at the parson a moment with her head cocked to the side. Then. she responded, “Okay, I get it. You told me last week no more money until November. Right?”

“Right,” said the parson.

Florence smiled, “Okay, Parson, but thanks for the groceries. I'll be here tomorrow.”

The parson bid her good-bye. After she'd left a church member came and sat down beside the parson. “How come we're always helping Florence?” he asked.

“Because,” said the parson, “she's really good at what she does. And we're really good at what we do.”