Questing Parson

Pilobolus Workshop

So, what do my oldest son and his wife, my daughter-in-love, do in their spare time?

Have I Told You About My Granddaughter?

 

 

 

 

 

This is my fifteen-year-old granddaughter. I don't want to brag, so click on the picture. 

Nine months ago she was hiking with me through the Aslaskan Wilderness. And now ....

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

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.”

The Plants Have Been Watered

7:30 a.m.

The parson arrived at the church. He headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of cappuccino, and, having completed that task, went to his study to make an attempt at organizing his day. On arriving at the study he realized he'd forgotten to bring the power cord to the laptop. Knowing there was another one in the media room he headed through the sanctuary to retrieve the cord from the room at the rear of the worship area.

Walking back to his study he noted the plants on the stands in the chancel were looking more than a little fatigued. He headed to the kitchen again, filled a pitcher with water and returned to the sanctuary where he watered the plants.

9:00 a.m.

The parson was at entering a meeting about a coming event in the community when he got a text from a member reading: “Parson, I was at the church and noticed the plants in the sanctuary were in real need of watering. I took care of it. Have a good day.” The parson did not give  much thought to the text and headed to his meeting.

11:00 a.m.

The parson was back at the church for a counseling session with someone. Following the session he left the church while the person who had sought the counseling remained to meet about a children's program at noon. About noon, the parson answered his cell phone. “Hi, Parson, it's me. Look I'm sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing but I thought I should tell you I watered the plants in the sanctuary.

The parson expressed his thanks, mentally filed this information somewhere in the recesses of his mind, and continued toward the hospital which was his next destination.

3:00 p.m.

“Ring. Ring.”

“Hello.”

“Hello, Parson, this is Wanda. I came by to clean the church. Those plants in the sanctuary looked a bit down on their luck so I watered them. Look, I know that Rhonda Milford likes to take care of the plants. But, gracious, she needs to do a better job. I went ahead and watered them.

It was around 5:00 p.m. The parson was sitting on the sofa contemplating the various possibilities of gastronomic delights he could create for himself. Suddenly, out of nowhere the parson's brain brought to the forefront the many calls about the plants.

“Come on, Charlie Brown,” said the parson. “We need to go to the church.”

7:45 p.m.

The parson finally rose from his knees in the chancel of the church. He took the soggy towel and placed it along with the dozen or so others in the bucket. Picking up the bucket he headed to the kitchen to ring them out and take them home to launder.

“Well, Charlie Brown,” the parson commented, as his faithful canine companion jumped in the backseat where the bucket of wet towels were on the floor, “those plants should look really fresh come Sunday morning.”

My Son and His Dance Company, Pilobolus, On German TV

My little boy is in the red shirt.

 

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.”

 

What Happens When OK Go and My Son's Dance Company, Pilobolus, Get Together?

Dizzy Dean Said "If it's true it's ain't bragging."

My son's dance company and his dance creation, "Shadowland" made the front page of Germany's largest newspaper. For a preview of this unique art form go HERE. (It's best viewed using the full screen option.)