Questing Parson

Exceeded Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Afternoon Well Spent

It's no secret the parson is getting up in age. His close friends know the fires from the Pearl Harbor attack had barely been extinguished when he was born. And yet, though he's modest, he still leads an active live. Not confined by the restrains of years nor the addle of brain; the parson's a living example of the benefits of modern medicine and technological development and physical exercise. Quite simply, the parson is what he is.

Take this past Monday, for example. On Monday the parson tries to relax, to defer from performing the myriad tasks he does on other days. He seeks always to make Monday a day for replenishment of the spirit, a day delete of calendared events.

Dawn broke not long before he rose from a night of blissful sleep.  Rested he hit the floor like a greyhound released from the starting gate in pursuit of the rabbit. The day had begun.

The parson's faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, accompanied him on the first quest of the day, the morning walk to shake the kinks away, to get the blood flowing, to give the dog the exercise needed to keep pace with one as on the move as he. Following the morning walk they headed to the hospital where the parson called on a congregant on the mend. From there another call was made on another member in the hospital in another town. By now it was early afternoon. There was more to do. He headed home.

The parson perched myself on the couch after constructing a gourmet delight for lunch. He munched and listened to the news. Lunch was more than satisfying. It softened the need for busyness. The plate was washed and placed in the drainer. The glass of tea was refreshed. Returning to the sofa the parson sipped the tea a moment as he settled into the comfort of the sofa and the warmth of the house and evaluated the options for the afternoon.

He had not planned the trip to the mountain stream, but he made it there. The cool water splashed on his face and wetsuit as he directed the kayak between the boulders and over the churning waters. What a trip. What a thrill.

The journey through the raging waters was followed by an address to an assembled group of clergy sitting in the sanctuary of a large church. The words flowed in poetic cadence; the audience was in the palm of his hand. It was a well-crafted sermon filled with delightful antidotes and poignant points. No wonder there was such applause at the end.

The ride home meandered through a forest. No traffic impeded the enjoyment. The sun shown brightly. There was a crisp freshness to the earth and only wisps of clouds in the sky. So delighful was the journey the parson lowered the window of the car to feel the cool wind whip about the car's interior. The trip seemed to go on forever, but he was in no hurry. There was time, always time to enjoy nature's beauty.

It was the bark of Charlie Brown wanting out that roused him. The ice in the tea glass had almost melted. There was a crick in his ancient neck. Rousing himself from the sofa he looked at his watch. Almost, it was time for supper.

Is God Moving?

The parson was sorting the mail at the church office when Horace Owen Tolliver, II, affectionately known to the elders as 2Hot, called his name from inside the church.

“In here; in the office,” shouted the parson, recognizing the voice.

In just a few seconds, 2Hot walked into the study.

“Hey, Parson, are you going to at the Annual Conference?”

“I’ll be there first thing in the morning for the Clergy Executive Meeting, 2Hot,” said the parson.

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m staying at home,” said the parson.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m going in the morning and then I’ll decide what sessions I’m going to attend,” the parson informed him. “If I think I need to stay for the whole thing, I’ll find a place, but I doubt that will be the case.” The parson’s retired status relieved him of the requirement to attend all sessions. “I’m just picking up a few things in the unlikely event I stay overnight.”

2Hot during this was moving about and taking an inventory of the parson’s office. He paused beside a side table and picked up a three ring binder with an attractive cover. It was the conference’s handbook.

“What do you think of the handbook this year?” 2Hot asked.

“What do you mean?” asked the parson.

“Well, did you read the reports?”

“I read the whole thing, 2Hot.”

“What did you think of it?”

“What did I think of 171 pages of reports?”

“Well, actually I was just talking about the handbook.”

The parson studied 2Hot for a minute. There was something he wasn’t connecting with.

“Is there something particular about the handbook I should notice?” asked the parson.

“Well, the cover, how did you like that?”

The parson took the handbook from 2Hot and examined the cover with an art piece depicting Jacob and the angels moving up and down the ladder.

“Are you talking about the art work?” asked the parson.

“Actually, Parson, I’m talking about the theme: “From Ordinary to Extraordinary; Wake Up and See Where God Is Moving”. I came up with that.”

“Well, congratulations,” said the parson. “I wasn’t aware that was your contribution.”

“Yeah, what do you think of it?”

“I guess you’re the one who motivated me to make the trip, 2Hot. ‘Wake Up and See Where God Is Moving,’ I’m going to the conference to plead that God not move away.”

Graphic: Cover Art 2010 Annual Conference Session, North Georgia Conference, United Methodist Church, Handbook.

I Took Sandy Miller to the Prom

I ran into a member of my church the other day. She was in the Kroger.  Party time was only a few hours away. She had to be prepared. But it wasn’t her party for which she shopped. Nope, it was an After-The-Prom Party she was to have ready when the young ones got home.

As I watched her load up that cart my mind wandered back to another century, back to my prom.

It all started when my grandfather and I were having a man-to-man discussion over the consternation I was experiencing with the approaching event. I really wanted to go to the prom. Fact was, I was a fairly good dancer, and I liked to dance. But I didn’t have a girl friend. So he asked me who I wanted to take to the dance. I told him I really, really wanted to take Pasty Estes. The problem was Sandy Miller, and Sandy Miller was, well, Sandy Miller was Sandy Miller. She lived way up there on a pedestal. But my grandfather said the worst thing she could do was to say “no” and if she did I’d be no worse off than I was then.

I asked Sandy Miller to go to the dance with me. That’s when my real anxiety began. Sandy Miller actually said, “Yes, I’d love to.”

Sandy Miller was going to the prom with me. She was not going with that Neanderthal football player Alex Rogers; she wasn’t going with that ego-inflated egg-head Eddie Turner. Sandy Miller was going to the dance with me.

Can you imagine the tension that inhabited my being? Can you imagine the myriad details that had to be attended to? Can you imagine? Can you imagine? I was going to the dance with Sandy Miller. Could life get any better?  And he told me I didn’t have to drive Daddy’s old clunker. He told me I could drive his car. Life was good. Sandy Miller was going to the prom with me in a fancy car.

You should have seen that white dinner jacket. You should have seen that pleated tux shirt with the smoky gray studs. You should have seen the wrist corsage I purchased for her. You should have seen Sandy Miller. Oh, my goodness, you should have seen Sandy Miller. She had encased her glorious self in a strapless gown that took my breath away.

You should have seen the guys staring at me when I walked into that dance with Sandy Miller. You should have seen me dancing like the central character in a Fred Astair musical with Sandy Miller the Ginger Rogers of our generation. Give me a minute. I’m recalling the moment myself.

Okay, I’m back. After the prom Sandy Miller and I headed for downtown Atlanta. We had a midnight dinner with some friends, all of whom kept staring at me because I was with Sandy Miller. We laughed and we joked and reveled in the fact we were out so late. I reveled in the fact I was out so late with Sandy Miller.

Evening over, I headed home. “What’s that spot on your jacket?” my mother asked. I informed her it was Sandy Miller’s makeup, where her head had rested on my shoulder.

That’s the story of my prom. I later found out she went with me only because I could dance better than that Neanderthal Alex Rogers. Today they, together, have five grandchildren.

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Sometimes Things Don't Get Done

 “Sweetheart.” The voice of Ms. Parson penetrated, barely, the consciousness of the parson. “Sweetheart.” This time the voice was accompanied by hand gently moving the parson’s left shoulder. “Sweetheart?”

The parson opened his eyes and looked around the living room. The TV was going across the space. The laptop was open on his lap. Ms. Parson was standing facing him slightly to the left. “What?”

“You were snoring.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“You were snoring while you rested your eyes.”

“Okay.”

“Have you posted anything on your blog today?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I was contemplating what to post when you interrupted my contemplative trance. Now I don’t know what to write.”

“So it’s my fault you’re not writing anything today.”

“It is.”

“Why don’t you write something now?”

“I can’t. You made me too sleepy. Good night.”

“I hope you dream up something to write tomorrow.”

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The Meeting

It was a cold day in Georgia, but warm where the parson sat. 

The Orca’s fin sliced through the water powerfully but smoothly and with only a whisper of a wake. The arching body drove smoothly, powerfully, at one with the cold waters of off the Kenai Peninsular of Alaska. Beside her, just as smoothly, moved her calf. Both broke the silence with the expelling of air through the blow hole. Quickly they moved beyond the parson to join their pod of ten or twelve others moving perpendicular to their course. 

The parson paddled on, watching the shore line of the fjord for any bears in search of food. Only dall sheep, however, were visible to the parson’s eyes. Above a bald eagle rode the invisible currents, dipping toward the water here and climbing toward the clouds there. The parson fixed his eyes on a small glacier off to the left and began a steady rhythm of the oar to propel him toward the destination. 

The pod of Orcas crossed his bow. The mother and calf swam close to him and paused for a second whereupon the mother seemed to instruct the child as to what species the parson represented. Satisfied she led the babe under the kayak to her family. The parson smiled and continued toward the glacier.

Nearing the wall of ice, a half mile being near, the parson stopped the motion of the oar to wait expectantly for the next block of ice to break away and plunge into the sea. Soon it did. The movement . . . .

Movement caught the parson’s consciousness. He opened his eyes and looked around. Everyone was standing. He copied their motion. Someone said a prayer. Everyone began to leave the room. The parson did likewise. At the door the church superior inquired as to what the parson thought of the meeting.

“Refreshing,” he replied. “Refreshing.”