Questing Parson

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.”

Blessed; Accepted

The parson was surprised when the invitation came, really surprised.

He'd known Greg for many years. Greg lived in the really, really big city, far, far to the north. The parson lived in the country, way down South. Who would have thought that circumstances, family, and several twists of fate would not only create an avenue of acquaintance but a bonding of two totally different persons.

The parson was, well if you've been reading this site for more than a day, you know who the parson is. Greg was an – Hmmm! What's the appropriate word for a male old maid? Greg was that. He was one of those people who are creatures of habit. He arose at the same time each day. He hopped on the train to go to work. He labored faithfully and joyfully for his employer,. He hopped on the train to return home. He cooked dinner. On specific nights he watched specific programs on the television. On other specific nights he read books from the New York Times best seller list.

Greg was one of those fellows who was a friend to all. The lady at the dry cleaners always was delighted when he, on the specific day allotted for this duty, picked up and dropped off his shirts and suits. Greg was a confidant to the server at the diner he visited on Tuesday and Thursday of each week, often giving her advice on how to handle delicate issues that impacted her living. On Wednesday mornings, on the way to catch the train, the lady at the counter already had the doughnut filled with the lemon flavored cream inside, along with the 20 ounce cup of decaf coffee, ready as he entered the door. Greg would inquire about each of her kids by name.

On Sunday, every Sunday, Greg headed for church, the Roman Catholic Church. Greg was Roman Catholic born, and Roman Catholic bred, and when Greg died Greg was Roman Catholic dead. It was Greg's death that prompted the invitation that brought the parson to the really, really big city.

Greg, for some strange, unknown, reason made a specific request in his will. Now Greg and the parson, being separated by a decade in age, being separated by geography with Greg abiding in the really, really big city, and the parson a product and resident of the rural area many, many hundreds of miles south of Greg's residence, had been limited in their contact with each other. Yet, over the years circumstances seemed to bump them up against one another.

In his will, Greg, this stalwart Roman Catholic, this officer in the Knights of Columbus, this good friend but separated in so many ways from the parson, had asked that the parson deliver his eulogy. Greg wanted the country parson to stand in the pulpit of the massive church where Greg worshiped all his life and speak as a Protestant pastor to all Greg's Roman Catholic friends.

Picture, if you will, the parson standing in the pulpit of the really big Catholic church. Picture the congregation wondering why Greg would pick this peculiar Protestant parson to speak. Feel the parson's nervousness being where he was on the occasion that brought him there. Picture that and then realize this story is not about Greg, but Greg's priest.

The parson completed his eulogy. The parson spoke a prayer. The parson stepped from the pulpit and made his way to a pew. He sat down, and then the parson realized what he'd just done. He had placed himself in the exact spot to ensure he would be the first to go forward to receive the Eucharist. The parson chastised himself for not thinking this through. He was not Roman Catholic. He could not receive the Eucharist.

When the appointed time came, the parson rose. He moved forward toward the altar. And, knowing the proper etiquette, he folded his hands across his chest and said, “Bless me, Father.”

The priest hesitated. He seemed to study the parson. Then, instead of speaking the expected words, he said, “You are blessed, my brother.” And with that he placed the wafer upon the parson's tongue.

The parson did not remember much of the remainder of that service. He was totally distracted by the tears of joy running down his cheeks.

MInistry: 9:00 - 3:00

The parson encountered a terrific surprise when his cell phone indicated that Morrison de Gary, known to this friends as Morry, was calling.

“Hey, Morry, what a treat to see your name pop up on the phone. How are you?”

“I'm good,” said Morry. “Hope you are, too. What are you doing right now?”

“Not much,” replied the parson. “I'm just sitting her contemplating all the possibilities for a dynamic sermon this Sunday.”

“Well, give it a break,” said Morry. “I'm passing through town. I thought, if you're not busy, we'd have some lunch together.”

“That's a plan,” said the parson. “Where are you?”

Morry told the parson which mile marker he was at on the highway. The parson then suggested they meet at the Ruby Tuesday's not too far from his home. When they'd hung up the parson headed with eager anticipation to the encounter with his friend, a dear friend who'd been the celebrant at Ms. Parson's service.

Inside Ruby Tuesday, the two exchanged greetings, were escorted to a table, ordered their lunch, grazed at the salad bar, and traded stories of mutual friends. Back at their booth nestled in a quiet corner of the restaurant, the parson asked, “So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

Morry, who lived on the eastern border of the state, said to the parson, who lived not too far from the western border, “Well, I'm just returning from Alabama.”

“Alabama? What were you doing in Alabama?”

“Well, my church gave a big chuck of money for disaster relief to our denominational relief agency, but I just couldn't get the folks in Alabama off my mind. You know, the wife's folks are from there. So, this yesterday I told the financial secretary to write a check from my discretionary funds and I jumped car and headed to Alabama.”

“How'd it go?”

“I guess it went okay,” said Morry. “But there was this weird thing. You see, I ended up giving my money to a small little congregation that probably didn't have a hundred members that was serving meals for the volunteers who were helping clean up the area. Now, I didn't know these people. I didn't know anything about the church. But I wanted to give my money to somebody that would make a difference. So, I gave it to them. I mean they were there doing something.”

The parson looked at his friend intently and said, “You sound like they were a second choice.”

“It's not they were a second choice,” said Morry, “but my original plan was to go by the area denominational headquarters and ask them where it could best be used. Well, here I was in the middle of the most devastated area of Alabama, with all these folks under distress, no place to live, everything gone, and me, having driven all those hundreds of miles to donate my little pittance, and when I got to the denominational office I was greeted with a sign on the door that said, 'Office Hours: 9:00 - 3:00.'”

The parson watched his friend again. He instinctively knew he was not through with what he had to say.

“So,” Morry added, “I just got back in my car and drove around until I found some church folks who, in the midst of the crisis, had extended their office hours."

After the Storm

It was a horrific week. Nature can be devastating in her power. Storms never distinguish between the good the bad, the deserving and those not. The force of nature knows not the difference in young or old, able or lame. The storms of last week reminded us of how fragile is our hold upon this earth. Suddenly we came face to face with what is important and what is not important.

Where once a house, the realization of the dreams of a lifetime, stood there is now but a pile of twisted debris scattered about a once sturdy foundation. The pickup truck is in the neighbor's yard, up-side-down. Aged hardwoods are snapped like twigs. How did that washing machine get six doors down the street and still be sitting upright? Whose Teddy Bear is in that tree? Was that the school?

There is something terrifying about tornadoes. The sound like the roaring of a freight train, the furious ferocity of the funnel dipping down to reap havoc and to destroy with impunity, the strange discoloration of the air, the certain knowledge that nothing on this earth can deter it, alter its course, or defend against it.

After the funnel has lifted, the wind has stilled, after the rain has subsisted, after individuals crawl from beneath rubble, or out of storm shelters, or basements that a few moments ago were covered with houses, the psychological assault begins. To be solvent one hour and destitute the next, to have a stocked pantry this minute and not knowing from where the next meal will come, to have memories recorded in pictures and documents today and no record of existence tomorrow can debilitate the soul. Suddenly, seemingly in the twinkling of an eye, to have life redefined and a future uncertain is a massive stomach punch to the psyche.

The destruction will impact for years to come. With luck the lives of victims can reach normal by the time the replacement of fallen trees have matured, and six-year-olds graduate and head to college.

Tornadoes come with a suddenness and leave quickly. That they do not hang around is but a small blessing considering the desolate landscape they leave behind. But there is a bigger blessings.

In their wake of destruction comes the noblest efforts of humans.

Bottled water is precious when the sun beats down upon the scarred land and the dust of twisted waste clogs the throat. The water came from untold numbers of people who seeking some way to help bought the carton and headed to where it is needed.

A shoulder is essential as tears flow and sobs shake the victim volunteer.

A helpful hand is indispensable when rubble must be sorted through and the crushed remains of what was stacked to be hauled off and discarded like well-laid plans for the future.

A cell phone call from an old friend not contacted for a decade with the inquiry, “Are you okay?” ties the one lost to hope for what may come.

“Let me help with that,” is a song sung in four part harmony by armies of volunteers flocking to unknown needs with unselfish impulse to aid.

“I don't know how to thank you for this,” is the lament of the one who just discovered such tragedies do not isolate but braid your life within the strands of human care and devotion.

Tornadoes are horrific but no match for the human spirit.

Learning to Care

 

It was a perfect day. Everyone was divided into those in shorts and t-shirts and those, a bit older with thinner blood, whose upper torso was covered by a sweater or sweat shirt. The breeze was gentle, seductively gentle. It was the day that spring announced, “Let’s party.”

The line stretched from the rear door to the front of the church, in places two or three wide. At least every other human in that line was being led on a leash by a canine intent upon seeing the vet. It was the annual Pet Vaccination and Adoption Day. The Echota Pet Rescue Group was there providing the shots, the tests, the microchips and other for those who needed it. And all across the front yard were the candidates to become a human’s new friend, a wide assortment of dogs waiting in anticipation of someone to love.

She was about eleven, maybe twelve, but I doubt it. Her hair was shoulder length, brunette with a hint of childhood blond. Her jeans had that fashionable slit in each knee, designed to imitate old and faded, but with a crease that hinted of a mother who did not completely understand pre-adolescent fashion.

The mutt was in her lap. His presence interrupted her perpetual habit of pushing strands of hair that would not stay put behind her left ear. The interruption was caused by his insistence on rooting toward her cheek to plant puppy kisses. Every other time, or so, she’d give a soft giggle and make some cooing expression to the creature.

“You like him?” I asked.

“I sure do,” she said.

“Going to adopt him?”

“I think he’s the one. My mom said I could get one more pet, just one. I think this one is going to be it.”

“Have you checked out the others?”

“No, sir,” she smiled, looking up with one eye obscured by the escaping strands of hair. “I didn’t need to look at any others. He’s the one. I’m going to call him Sassy.”

She giggled as the puppy strained upward to lick at the lobe of the ear that had once again been assigned to hold the wandering hair strands. She laid Sassy on his back in her lap and began rubbing his belly. Sassy forgot about licking as he struggled to understand why his leg was jerking.

She looked at the line of people stretching around the church being led by their pets. “It’s nice everyone can come here and get the shots,” she said. “Mom has my other dog inside getting his shorts.” Sassy began chewing on her right index finger. “But you know what? There’s not a lot of people here adopting pets. That’s a shame.”

“You’re adopting one. That’s a start.”

She nodded, thought a moment, and then pointed toward a mongrel in a cage twenty feet away. “I thought about getting that one, but then I saw Sassy. I hope someone gets her.” She stopped her belly rubbing and directed the hair back to its place. As soon as her hand left the belly Sassy headed for her cheek. Another giggle.

“I like your dog,” she said as my faithful canine canine companion, Charlie Brown, decided to push Sassy around with his nose. She grabbed Charlie Brown and hugged him. Sassy took shelter under her arm. “You know,” she said, “if we don’t take care of the animals, we’ll never learn to take care of ourselves.”