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.

In Loving Memory

"Ms. Parson"

Lynn Ellis Kent
October 3, 1949 ~ December 15, 2010

I'll be back Monday

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.

A Real Conflict

The parson was in his study early in the day. It was part of his new strategy to have everything needed for Sunday, the bulletin, the sermon, the multi-media presentation, ready by the end of the day Wednesday. It was a good strategy. Whether it would be achieved remained to be seen.

The phone rang about mid-morning. The parson answered it by identifying the name of the church.

“Ah, hello, I was trying to reach the Parson.”

“Parson, my name is Alex Rogers. You don't know me, but my family wanted me to contact you.”

“Okay,” said the parson, a little confused.

“So, the thing is my Aunt Velma passed yesterday evening.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” the parson said. “Ah, did I know your Aunt?”

“Well, actually, I don't think you did. But, well, the family thinks a lot of you.”

The parson didn't say anything. He was a bit perplexed.

“You see,” said Alex, “I heard you preach at Herman Snyder's funeral. I was a friend of Herman. We worked the second shift over at the mill together. I guess we worked together for almost fifteen years. Man, you really hit the nail on the head. You pegged old Herman like you'd known him for years. I was really impressed. That was something else.

“And my cousin Marvin Ledbetter, do you know Marvin?”

“I don't think I do,” said the parosn.

“Well, Marvin, he told me he was at the funeral of Amy Watson. He said it was the best eulogy he'd ever heard. Now I know Amy weren't no saint, but Marvin said you said the exact things that needed to be said. He thought that you did the best job he'd ever heard.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said the parson.

“You're welcome,” said Alex. “So the thing is, Parson, we thought we'd like to hire you to preach Velma's funeral.”

“You want to hire me to do Velma's funeral?”

“Yes, sir. That's what we decided. And listen, Parson, we know you're good so we're prepared to pay whatever it costs.”

The parson was stunned. He thought he'd heard almost everything in forty-five years of ministry. Now he knew he was wrong.

“Tell me,” the parson said, “what church did your Aunt Velma attend?”

“She didn't go to church, Parson. In fact, I'm not sure she ever darkened the door of a church. She wasn't much on the God thing.”

“And you?” the parson asked, “what church do you attend?”

“Well, after all, Parson, I'm my Aunt Velma's nephew. I don't go to church either. I wouldn't be caught dead in the church. Well, wait a minute. I guess that's not exactly the case, if you understand what I mean.”

“Alex,” said the parson, “I'm really flattered your family thinks I do such a good job at funerals. It's very flattering. But, the fact is I have a conflict at the time of the funeral.”

“But I haven't told you when the funeral is,” said Alex.

“I know,” said the parson. “But I have a conflict.”

Ms. Parson's Window

Today's Ms. Parson's birthday. Ah, how we miss her.

I thought to celebrate I'd share Ms. Parson's (Lynn's) window that members of the church installed in her memory.

The center square of the window is actually one of Ms. Parson's own stained glass creations. Doug Clark, a church member and fellow stained glass artist like Ms. Parson, used her piece and then created the many colorful pieces surrounding it. Larry Greeson, another church member and dear friend of Ms. Parson, installed the window at the rear of the sanctuary.

The interpretation of the piece depends on who you talk to. Some members say, the pieces of glass surrounding Ms. Parson represent all those who would come to her for advice, laughter, or love in her lifetime. Others say it's all those people she helped and loved embracing her, even in death.

Either way, she'd be (and surely is) overjoyed that her church remembers her in such a powerful and beautiful way.

 


 

Memories and Promises of Dirty Jokes

The parson was dozing in the uncomfortable, upright hospital room chair. Somewhere in the depths of the darkness that enveloped him a voice echoed, “Parson, Parson.” He shook himself to consciousness.

His eyes opened to see her in the hospital bed. The upper portion had been lifted upright about a third of the way. Her hair was tossed about in a manner she'd be horrified were she to see it, but which brought a certain cuteness to her demeanor, especially in these circumstances and which brought memories to the parson.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” she asked.

“Tim, needed some rest, Andrea,” he said. “I volunteered to come down and sit with you for a night. He'll be better for it.”

“You're sweet,” said Andrea. “I guess Tim has given you all the gory details.”

“He has.” The parson paused. Then he said, “I'm sorry, Andrea. I'm so sorry.”

“Ah, don't be sorry, Parson,” she said. “We've both had a good and long life. I was pretty sure way back when that one day it would end.”

The parson didn't say anything. She didn't say anything for a long time. She looked out the window. The parson rose, stretched, put the blanket he'd covered himself with in the cabinet/closet. At the room sink he splashed water on his face and then dried it. He sat back down. She turned from the window and looked at him closely.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“I mean a personal question about us.”

“Sure.”

“Does Tim know?”

“Does Tim know what?”

“Does he know we dated in high school?”

“Andrea, everybody knows we dated in high school.”

“Does he really?”

“Yes, don't you remember that night you and Ms. Parson, Tim and I went out to dinner? We talked about it.”

“Did we?”

“We did.”

“Sometimes I can't remember things. I think it's because of the drugs. What happened at the dinner?”

“Tim found out about us dating in high school; in fact, Ms. Parson did, too. I wish you could remember it. They were both so shocked. They laughed and said it was a good thing we drifted apart because we'd have ended up divorced.”

“I wish I could remember it, too.”

There was silence again for a while. Then Andrea said, “I'm glad you found Ms. Parson.”

“Me, too. I needed her.”

“You still do; don't you.”

“I do. But I still have her in so many ways.”

“Will you be honest with me?”

“I will.”

“How long?”

“No one has told you?”

“Everyone wants to protect me.”

The parson paused. He didn't want to intrude upon sacred space. But this was Andrea. “Three days; maybe a week; maybe a few days more.”

She looked out the window. The room was quiet.

“No pain?”

“No pain. I guess you'll just go to sleep.”

She smiled, “That's nice.”

The parson now looked out the window. Sometimes forty years of ministry are not worth a damn in providing the right response.

“Are you going to do the memorial service?”

“Tim asked me to.”

“Can you make me one promise?”

“Anything.”

“You'll tell at least one dirty joke.”

“That's a promise. How about I add a description of that day at the waterfall?”

“It must be the drugs, Parson. I can't seem to remember that at all.” She looked at him and smiled the mischievous smile that seemed to be the hallmark of her younger years.

“You'll make sure Tim knows how much I love him?”

“I will.”

Again she looked out the window. It was a long, long moment. The parson rose and moved around the bed to look upon her face. She was asleep. The parson returned to his chair. He took out his laptop and began to input some thoughts. He had no conception of how long he'd been trying to work on his sermon, but eventually she turned her head and spoke.

“Working on what you're going to say at the memorial?”

“Not yet,” he smiled.

“Will you do me a favor?”

“You got it.”

“Lie.”

“Lie?”

“Yes, lie. There's absolutely no reason you need to tell the truth about me. Couldn't you make me out to be a saint?” She laughed. It was a really halting laugh. But it was a laugh.

“You are a saint in so many ways?”

“Right,” she said.

The room was quiet again. And in a few moments she said, “I'm going to sleep again, Parson. Thanks for coming. Thanks for being my friend all these years.”

The parson didn't say anything. She fell, almost immediately, asleep. A few hours later Tim came. The parson and he talked a while in whispers. Tim promised he'd call when needed or if there was any change.

The parson left. He walked to his car accompanied by a half century of good memories and trying his best to think of an appropriate dirty joke.

Hallowed Ground

Sometimes people surprise you.

When you're on vacation, as am I this week, you inevitably bump up against other tourists. Being the old cranky, opinionated, irritable senior citizen I am, sometimes folks can just be pains. The loud kids – come on folks when I was raising my kids we had a way of taking care of that. The self-abrasive, self-important folks that want to impress everyone with their presence. You know of whom I speak. You've been on vacation, too, and those same people were part of your get-away also.

That's the way it was when my granddaughter accompanied me up the long streets of Arlington National Cemetery. Some of my classmates now rest there. I wanted to tell them I haven't forgotten.

Kids were whimpering at the long walk. I couldn't blame them. You let someone hold your hand over your head for a few hours and see if you don't start fussing. Some adults were being like kids in their bravado. It continued that way until ….

I don't know what causes it, but as people approach the Tombs of the Unknowns they get more silent. Somehow, I think it's the look on the faces of and the silence reflected in those coming down the hill from the sacred place. It gets quiet. Even those fussy kids sense a change in their parents and they become quiet, also.

There the guard marches his twenty-one paces in front of the tomb, twenty-one paces signifying a twenty-one gun salute. He then, with a snap of his heels, wheels in a ninety degree right or left face to look out over the terrain that is Arlington. He remains there for exactly twenty-one seconds, exactly, again a symbolic twenty-one gun salute. He has spent four hours getting his uniform ready for his thirty minute guard duty over the Unknown. He has vowed, because he's honored to perform this sacred duty, to never, for the rest of his life, consume any alcoholic beverage nor to ever publicly utter a profane word. His is a sacred duty; his is a noble duty; his is the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a soldier, to guard the tombs of the Unknowns.

There is silent at that tomb. The silence is only broken by the click of the heels of the Sentry. So silent is it that click of the heels echoes down into the valley. The Unknowns are not forgotten.

A foreign tourist speaks out loud. As one, all the other visitors to this sacred place turn and stare and without a spoken word the message is communicated, “No, not here. No, don't speak here. Not here; this is hallowed ground. Shhhh. This is beyond expression.” And the Sentry's heels click in an acknowledged “Amen.”

It was a long walk back down the hill from the Tomb of the Unknowns. It was a long walk. People seemed to be staring at me. Were they sensing I was moved and in that sensing being prepared to be moved? I do know the closer to the sacred spot they grew the quieter they became.

We got into the car. “Thanks for letting me visit my friends,” I told my granddaughter.

“It was special,” she said.

It was special. It was so special to know that in this skeptical, cynical world, this place of so much irreverence, there's one spot that we still consider hallowed ground.

A Change Not Now Needed

I've been a widower for almost nine months now (for the second time). I've been a pastor for forty-six years now. I tell you this: Until you have lost a spouse you have no idea what grief is. I think back on all the times I tried to be a pastor throughout those years to the grieving widows and widowers. I look back and I realize how pathetic were my well-intentioned efforts. No one can prepare you for the devastation of mourning. And no one can comfort you adequately.

But, sad as the cliché may be, life does go on. There comes a day when you wake up and realize that your spouse is dead and you are not. And as much as being the surviving spouse just sucks, you are the survivor and you are living. Life, then, must be acknowledged. Life then must be claimed. Life must, by its very definition, go on.

I embraced the fact I must go on. I embraced it right after taking my eight-year-old granddaughter on our Excellent Alaskan Adventure, of which I written on these pages. Having that child hug me with her unbridled love, having that child's enthusiasm for the future infect me, I decided to live every day I am alive.

With that decision I've begun to rearrange my life. And so, despite my aged back that cries out in protest every inch of the change, I have begun to move on. The carpet needs to come up in the two rooms that still possess them. There's laminated hardwood floors to be installed. Lynn's not here anymore; there's no reason her sewing room cannot be turned into the grandchildren's room. And the kitchen, oh, the kitchen, just an acknowledgment of the century I live in demands some modifications to the kitchen.

I've measured. I've drawn up plans. I've made a priority list of changes. I've shopped and found a trundle bunk bed at a reasonable price, allowing me to have three grandchildren overnight at once. I've drawn up plans for the kitchen renovation, including the new ceramic tile floors. And, to tell you the truth, the present living room furniture is on the schedule of change; I only said I liked it because Lynn did. I'm well on my way to living beyond the grief and embracing the yet-to-be-discovered blessings of life.

Part of the renovations are centered on my little study. I plan to spend a lot of time there writing little essays as this. I need it to be conducive to stimulating my creative spirit. It's going to be a homey office, if you will. So, I'm making changes. One of those is putting some cabinet/bookcases in what is now the closet, thereby allowing more “living space” in the work area. And part of the placement of the cabinet/bookcases in the closet involved removing the shelving. It's that wire-like shelf so prevalent in modern homes. It was in removing that shelf I discovered there's one change I do not have to make.

There's a brace for that shelf, running from the front of the shelf to the wall, giving it support. When I removed that brace, I discovered it's perfect for scratching the back. It's long enough to reach all areas; the angle of the edge provides the perfect tension. It's wonderful.

Who would have thought. With the discovery of that unique back scratching device, I don't need to get married again.

Love From Beyond

I'd been working in the yard all day. It wasn't the smartest thing I'd done recently as the temperature was around ninety degrees. But despite my exhausted feeling and my aching muscles the day had been, it seemed, re-creational.

I was just about to head to the shower when there was a knock on the door. Opening it, I found a man in his mid-thirties standing there.

“Are you the Reverend Kent?”

“I am,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“Well, sir,” he said and then told me his name and the company he represented. “We've processed your pre-application form for supplemental insurance, and I'd like an opportunity to go over it with you.”

Now, the truth is I had been on Ms. Parson's insurance before her death. And forty-five days after her death my coverage was dropped. I, indeed, was in need of some supplemental insurance. But I told him, “I didn't send you any pre-application form.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, “I have it right here.”

He handed it to me. The application was dated the day before Ms. Parson entered the hospital. And it was in her handwriting. She had experienced a premonition, we learned, she wouldn't survive the surgery. And, seemingly, she arranged even after death to take care of me.

I scheduled a time for the agent to come back. But I'm not sure he understood why I wouldn't give him the application back.

Letter to Ms. Parson's Granddaughter

Dear Sara,

Your Mama told me it finally happened. Yesterday your tears fell in torrents because your Memo is gone. Weep, Sara, weep; your weeping is a precious gift from God.

You have been so strong, so brave, holding back your tears because you didn't want to cause your Mama to weep more. Hold them back no longer, Sara. Your Mama and I have wept our hearts out, and while we weep still, we wil be the brave ones for a while. Now, it is your turn.

You don't have to be brave about this anymore, Sara. I haven't been so. Your Mama hasn't been so. We miss your Memo so, so much. So weep Sara, weep. Weep because in your weeping God will bring you a blessing, a blessing of comfort, of fulfillment, and most of all a blessing of presence.

I remember the first time I met you. You probably have forgotten. It was three weeks after your Memo married me. The second week after that two of my grandkids came to spend the night. The next weekend you insisted you spend the night. Memo smiled about that, Sara. She smiled at your determination, even at that young age, that nothing would come between the love you and Memo had for each other. And nothing did, Sara, nothing ever did and nothing ever will.

Sara, if you're like me, you probably are having feelings that “I wish I had told her...” “I wish I had spent more time with her ...” I wish … If only ...” Oh, Sara, I wish I had said “I love you” more often. I wish I'd spoken more tender words to her when they wheeled her into surgery. For a good part of the last two months I've beaten myself up over that. So, I know how that can haunt you.

You're still young Sara. Oh, I know you've gotten your driver's license. I know you're not that little girl who came over to protect your relationship with Memo right after we got married. You're a young woman now, a young woman of beauty and poise and on your way to accomplishment. So, Sara, I'm going to talk to you like your Memo would, seeing as how you're a young woman and not a child. Memo used to tell young adults like you to “stop focusing on the woulda and the coulda. Spend your time on what's real.”

Here's what's real, Sara. You miss your Memo. Life will never be the same without your Memo. And you can cry buckets that she'll not be sitting in the grandmother's chair at your wedding, and she won't rock your babies. But Sara as cruel as that is, as unfair as that is, no one will ever be able to take this from you: Your Memo loved you beyond measure. What's important is not what we shoulda said to her, what we would do if she were still here. What's important, Sara, is her love for you.

Memo is dead, Sara. God help you and me, your brother and your Mama, but Memo is dead. Yet nothing will ever destroy the love Memo had for you Sara, nothing. Look at these pictures, Sara. See the love in her eyes for you.

Time will diminish our pain and our feeling of loss. But time will only magnify that you knew such a depth of love. And you will continue to know it. I suspect that, with time, when you do something of worth in life you'll experience that delightful smile she flashed when she was pleased with you. I expect that when you're wondering what path to take you'll feel her presence beside you.

So, Sara, weep. Weep as much as you want. And don't wait two months to let it go this time. And if you need any help you come over to Memo's house and we'll hug and weep together. But when the tears are cried out, when the sobbing is done and we're breathing normal again, I'll look at you and I'll see Memo in you and we'll hug and laugh because we were blessed enough to know that special, special love that came from your Memo.

I love you, Sara.

________________________________

Now, about your grades ….