Questing Parson

The Purpose of the Meeting

I found myself in a meeting last week. Fact is, I find my self in meetings often. It's a by-product of being in the profession I've been a part of for over forty-five years. Some folks think that what we preachers do is preach. Others think that what we pastors do is visit the sick and comfort the afflicted. We do do that, and doing that contributes to the sense of place and accomplishment. But the truth is we ordained also go to meetings, lots of meetings.

Just out of curiosity, as I sat in that particular meeting last week, I pulled out my iPhone, tapped the little icon that pulls up the Merriam-Webster Dictionary and looked up “meeting.” It says in that dictionary a meeting is “an act or process of coming together” or “an assembly for a common purpose.”

I can buy into that first definition. I was sitting in that meeting because everyone in the room had engaged in an act of coming together.” It was kind of obvious. I mean we were all there, together. The second definition, however, appears a bit troublesome. I'm not sure I've ever been to a meeting where everyone there came for a common purpose.

At last weeks' meeting, for instance, some of the people came to soak up the information the convenor of the meeting was disseminating. In fact, that was the stated purpose of the meeting. And the convenor disseminate. But there were others there with a different purpose.

One fellow in the meeting last week was there to be seen. He walked into the meeting, not by the side door, not by the read door, but through the door that was directly behind the speaker. We all got to see him. We all observed that he wasn't dressed like the rest of us. While we wore business suits or even more casual slacks and shirts, this late arrival wore wrinkled shorts, a bright t-shirt, and flip flops. We all saw him. He made sure we saw him because he waved to us all as he waltzed to a seat at the end of the center aisle.

Others come to the meeting to impress. These are the people who must have studied up on the issues for which the meeting was convened. As the convenor stands before the group explaining this aspect or that particular angle to the problem, this fellow continually interrupts to “clarify” what the speaker has said. At last week's meeting, I noticed the lady who had come to the meeting for this purpose had a clip board with notes on the floor between her feet. As each issue was addressed, she consulted her notes before “clarifying.”

And there's always the person who comes to the meeting with the obvious purpose of having the last word. If you've ever attended a meeting you've met this person. Things are winding down. The participants are starting to sneak peeks at the watch or phone to see how long this has been going on. The leader then asks, “Does anyone have any question?” Guess what. This person always has a question. There should be a law against anyone ending a meeting by, in effect, asking if anyone wants the meeting to last longer.

I would love to write more about his, after all I am a expert on the subject, but I have another meeting to attend. 

Where Are the Women

Sunday night the parson cacooned himself within the covers early. As was his custom on Sunday nights, no alarm was set to rouse him in the morning. On Monday mornings the parson crawled out of bed when the warmth of the covers no longer protected him from the day.

This night he fell asleep quickly. It had been a good day. The people had received his sermon gladly. A couple had talked to him of joining the church. And the Sunday evening Bible study had gone exceptionally well.

That Bible study the parson had resisted for years. Finally, he gave in on the condition that it be an actual Bible study. And so for the last two-and-a-half years almost every Sunday night had involved a study of the Bible. At first there had been some resistance to the parson's methodology. He had begun at Genesis 1: 1 and was proceeding through the books of the Bible, talking of the events that had shaped it, who wrote it, why they wrote it, pointing out the contradictions.

The “Bible-is-the-literal-word-of-God”-folks challenged him on the third week of the Bible. “But,” said their leader of that group, “the Book of Revelation says ….” The parson cut him off. “Look,” said the parson, “when it comes to Revelation, I will bow to your considerable knowledge. With regards to Revelation, you have read it much more than have I. In fact, I try not to read it. It involves some vision of terrible things that are going to happen in the future. I'm a follower of Christ. I concentrate on the wonderful things that are happening now. But, I don't want to ignore your point. As you're aware, we started with Genesis and we're going book by book through the Bible. We should get to Revelation in about, well, let's see, ah, about five years. So, please, hold that thought until then.”

They never came back. And so it was on Sunday night the parson and the Bible study participants looked critically at the differences in the stories told by the Deuteronomist storytellers and the Chronicler. The study had ended with the group focusing on the fact that the Chronicler left out anything that might reflect badly on David as an ideal king, especially leaving out the women. But the study ended with the observation that the Chronicler made a slip.

In 2 Chronicles 35: 25, he talks about “all the singing men and singing women” who mourn Josiah's death. So, concluded the parson and his group, the women did have a part to play after all. And supposing this was a Temple activity, the women had a more active part than the Chronicler's version led his hearers to believe.

Monday morning arrived. The parson rose. He switched his iPad on and began to surf the web for the news. After acquainting himself with what was happening, he looked for stories about March madness. There it was on almost every newspaper and magazine available on the device. There were the men's brackets, the rankings, the dark horses, all in the NCAA Men's tournament. The parson spent twenty minutes looking for the brackets, the rankings, the favorites, the dark horses of the NCAA Women's Tournament. He couldn't find any reference. It was as if Women's Collegiate Athletics did not exist.

Amazing, six hundred years before Jesus the storytellers left the women out, and still today few would admit they, also, occupied the court.

OMG - I'm On Her Mother's Side

Ring. Ring.

“Hello.”

“Hi, it's me.”

“Hello, me.”

“Funny, you always say that when I call. Do you say that to everyone?”

“You're the only one I know named 'Me'.”

“Funny, again. Look I need to talk seriously with you about something important.”

“No problem. What's up.”

“My Mom. I need you to talk to her. She's getting a little, well, I don't want to sound disrespectful, so, let me see. Okay, it's like this. Sometimes she draws these arbitrary lines. I mean nobody knows the line is there until they have crossed it. My sisters and I can be going merrily along with our lives, the day is bright and happy; all is right with the world; and suddenly, I mean OMG, she announces that we stepped over the line. 'What line?' we ask, and for the first time since creation she points to the line....”

“Do you have a moment for me to ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Does this line have a name?”

“Oh, for sure, this line has a name. I mean it's like the line has a large label with red letters. The name of the line is 'Stupid.'”

“What's the purpose of this 'Stupid' line?”

“Okay, so here's the deal. The line is the boundary standing between my house and my dance studio where I'm supposed to be in forty minutes. You know, don't you, that I don't just take dance lessons there; I am, also, the assistant teacher for the little kids. Well, the teaching pays for the big majority of my dance lessons. Remember how you told me you were so proud of me for being independent? Well, I am independent. I pay my way. I'm a fifteen year old who contributes to my own welfare. I need to go to the dance studio.”

“Okay, I'm going to venture a guess on this. The line between you and the dance studio is a boundary that is prohibiting you from getting to the dance studio in time to take lessons and teach.”

“You got it.”

“And would you have interest in sharing with me why your Mother drew this stupid line that separates you from your home and your livelihood?”

“I skipped school today.”

“You skipped school today?”

“I did it right here in front of her. I mean she knew I was skipping school. It's not like I didn't go to school without her knowledge. And I seem to have heard you used to let your kids, one of whom is my mother, skip school sometimes because they made all A's. I make all A's, too.”

“Why did you skip school?

“I had a science paper due I hadn't finished.”

“You skipped school to work on your science paper. I've got that. What's the problem about the dance studio?”

“She won't let me go. She says that if I skipped school I have to skip all the other activities for the day; that I can't do what she calls 'the fun stuff' when I didn't do the what she calls 'the grunt stuff.'

“Your mother's right.”

“Oh, great! You've crossed over to the dark side. Where can a mature woman get justice around here?”

“Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Don't you ever tell your mother I took her side.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hands and Fingers

The parson, with the ceramic chalice in hand, stepped from behind the altar table and headed down to the front of the chancel. Mark, the twelve-year-old who was assisting him this Sunday, took his place beside the parson, resplendent in his white robe. With a nod of the parson's head to the person on the aisle seat of the front right pew, the congregants on that pew rose and proceeded in line to receive the bread and wine.

Mark, with the bread, surrounded by the white linen cloth, held tightly in hand, awaited the first one to approach. He'd learned to be prepared because some took a small pinch of the bread while others with much gusto tore off what in less sacred circumstances would be considered a chunk. And the parson, as each approached softly intoned the words, so praciticed thorugh four decades of ministry, he could recite the phrases so that each thought he was speaking to them and them alone: “The body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ; take and eat; do this in remembrance; Christ died for you.”

For some reason on this particular celebration of the Lord's Supper, the parson, while intoning the words, became fascinated with the hands of those who received the gift of bread and wine. He watched intently as each tore off or pinched away or gently removed a portion of bread that Mark offered and then stepped in front of the parson to dip the bread into the juice. The hands. The fingers. Both so symoblic of the gathered.

There were gnarled fingers, indicative of long hours of physical labor on the farm, fingers adept at clenching with great force the reins that would impel the cow or horse into the designated stall, fingers that while marred by years of labor could deftly milk utters with the same practiced movement as a skilled masseur.

There were delicate fingers, long, long delicate fingers, seemingly capable of spaning two or three octatives on a piano keyboard, fingers that defied the ravages of life and in their unique delicacy gave witness to the finer things of living.

There were hands punctuated by the blue bruised fingernails of a carpenter who despite years of experience lapsed in concentration and suffered the indiginity of a hammer blow, fingers that gave witness in their swolleness to the fluent vocabulary of the owners painful shout.

There were tiny fingers, uncertain of how much to pull from the loaf, fingers that seemed unsure in their intent, fingers that heistated until the owner's eyes had looked into Mama's for confirmation that all was being done well, fingers that with relish dipped the bread into the juice and smiled at the atnicipated sweet taste.

There were aged aged and wrinkled hands with fingers giving witness to the ravages of age, fingers that moved in cadance with the stooped and halting movement of the rest of the body to which they were attached, but fingers that had partaken of this bread and this juice so many times their heistation was only witness of reverence and not age.

There were manicured fingers, fingers with nails shaped and polished at expensive botiques, fingers that reflected one's personal care and attention to grooming.

There were long nails, short nails, stubby digits, large knuckles, small knuckles, calloused palms and lotion softened ones. There were fingers that gently touched Mark's hand in appreciation for his presence, or his innocence, or his participation. There were hands whose index and middle fingers were stained an orange/yellow color whispering of a lifetime of struggle with nicotine. There were calloused palms and lotion softened ones. There were hands that shook with infirmity and hands that shook in the presence of that which is holy. The hands, the fingers, all so different and all telling the story of the diversity of the parson's congregation.

When the day was over, when Mark was home playing a video game, when the evening Bible study had concluded, and the parson sat back on his couch with Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion curled at his side, he thought back on the hands and fingers he'd seen that day.

Hands and fingers are wonderful things. The parson remembered the delicate touch of his mother's hand brushing back the hair from his forehead; the sting of his daddy's hand making contact with his butt as well as his daddy's hands cupped around his to show him how to grip the baseball bat. He remembered the jolting explosion of pain when his neighbor and boyhood friend slugged him in the face. He remembred the feel of his fingers entwined with those of his first sweetheart so long, long ago. He remembered the hands of his Mama folded on her Bible as she whispered some life lesson to him. Hands. Fingers. So reflective of who we are. The parson shivered as he remembered her nails scratching his back.

Hands. Fingers. They witness who we really are.

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.

Mysteries At My House

The older I get the more intrigued I become with things that I somehow just missed along life's pathway. They aren't big things. They are not consequential things. There's nothing earthshaking about my having missed these mysteries, these fascinations, these objects of my senior contemplation. Nevertheless, I seem to be wondering about them more frequently. Maybe it's just a process of aging that one begins to notice what one overlooked before.

I realize that there may be some who think that, because of my age and especially because of my widower status which gives me more time to contemplate things never contemplated before, I may be becoming a bit – well I hate to use the word “senile” but – senile. I beg to differ. Personally, I think I am becoming more attuned with life, more aware of life's challenges, more appreciative of life's gifts, and certainly less occupied and therefore availed of the time needed to discover these fascinations.

You wonder of what I speak, do you not? Well, here are a few examples.

Dog hair has a life and a path of its own. Look, I don't profess to be the world's greatest housekeeper. But I do keep my clothes washed; I do a fairly good job of picking up after myself. And everyday I vacuum and/or run a dust mop over the floors. Here's what I've discovered. No matter how careful I am in this endeavor, after I've put up the vacuum cleaner or put the dust mop away, behind the next interior door I close or open there well be hiding there at least two clumps of dog hair. How does that dog hair know I'm after it?

Another fascination is those softball shaped and sized light bulbs over the master bath sink and the teardrop shaped ones over the table. There are four of them in the bathroom and six over the table. A little while back I placed new bulbs in each of those sockets. Four brand new bulbs, purchased on the same day, screwed in on the same day in the bathroom and likewise six over the table, and yet they do not all burn out at the same time. Assuming all those bulbs went through the same quality control in the manufacturing, don't you think, they should all burn out within twenty-four hours of each other. Not so. And how does it happen that no matter how often I buy those replacement bulbs every other one burns out when there are no replacements in the cabinet?

There's also the ceiling fan. Now the bulbs in the ceiling fan work fine. They're those seven year types. And the ceiling fan itself works fine. What fascinates me about the ceiling fan is the amount of dust accumulating on top of the blades. Have you ever noticed how much dust is on top of those blades? If you haven't, don't. You have to stand on a chair to notice. Which begs the question: Should anyone bother dusting the top of the ceiling fan blades anyway? I mean, if someone visits my home and stands on a chair to look at the top of my ceiling fan blades they can just head back home.

Aw, the mysteries of living that one can notice when one gets old enough and has the time. Maybe it's the time on my hands. Maybe it's mature perception. Maybe I need to get out more.

Secular Preaching?

The parson was selecting some choice meats for the week's groceries. As was his custom he scoured the meats first, looking for values. Once the values were chosen he headed to the produce section where he'd round out his menu planning for the week. Produce was the challenge for the parson. Choice meats could be sliced up and frozen for several day's consumption. Fresh vegetables usually had to be purchased in quantities that did not lend themselves to freshness at week's end. It was the challenge for a widower living alone.

The parson had made his selections, had wandered up and down the aisles selecting the items needed to round out his week's menu, and was now browsing the beverage section in search of some Alice White Australian and Robertson South African wines. As he puzzled for another time over the reasoning behind the store's place of the various wines on the shelves, he heard a voice.

“Parson, what are you doing on this aisle?”

The parson turned to see Freddie Chambers, pastor of the Gird Thy Loins From Sin Lest You Fail to Obtain Celestial Glory Church of the Blessed Redeemed, looking at him with a puzzled look on his face.

“Ah, Freddie, I'm on this aisle because I'm looking for a nice red wine to compliment the pasta with asparagus sauce I'm planning to cook tonight.”

“You drink, Parson?” asked Freddie.

“Sometimes I do,” the parson replied. “Sometimes I use a funnel.”

Immediately the parson realized Freddie didn't get the joke. He decided to drop it but was now conflicted as to whether to direct his full attention to Freddie or to continue looking for the distinctive Alice White label. Freddie helped guide him out of his dilemma.

“Parson, you fascinate me. You know, here you are on the wine aisle of the church, and I know that a couple of days ago you were at one of the Rome Braves game. My nephew said he saw you there. I read your column in the newspaper and you mentioned that you spent time hiking at Cloudland Canyon State Park. I also know you're taking time off to go to Alaska. I don't understand how you can spend so much time in secular activities and still preach the gospel every Sunday.

The parson hesitated in his answer, not because he was at a loss for an answer but because his eyes had just zeroed in on the distinctive teardrop bottle of a Robertson wine.

“It's called preaching from life's experiences, Freddie.”

“Well, I prefer to spend my time in communion with the Lord in my study each day,” said Freddie.

“You're much more lucky than I,” the parson responded. “God seems to have chosen not to inhabit in my study.”

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.”

Lies I've Heard and Told

As I’ve passed through this life, it occurs to me everything I’ve been told as well as everything I’ve said was not necessarily the truth. For example:

Wait in this room. The doctor will be here in just a few minutes.

This is going to hurt me more than it does you.

This is not the end. We’ll always be friends.

That was an inspiring sermon.

What a beautiful anthem, choir.

Oh, yes! We’ll definitely keep in touch.

I’ll be brief with my last point.

I always try to finish my sermon by Wednesday.

No! That dress does not make you look fat.

She has a wonderful personality.

Someday, you’ll thank me for this.

Clinical Pastoral Education will be one of the most exciting experiences of your life.

Well, we’re going to get back in the habit of going to church right after the summer activities.

If you can’t pay today I’m not going to worry about it.

If you’ll sit on top of the churn the ice cream will freeze faster.

I’m not going to tell you again.

It’s easy to get there; you can’t miss it.

We’ll keep in touch.

I was just resting my eyes.

Your grandfather is going to be mad at you.

If you play with frogs you’ll get warts.

You’ll get over it.

I know exactly how you feel.

I’ll never forget you.

I’m not in it for the money.

The church we’d like to send you to is a perfect match for you.

What a surprise! I’m so glad to see you.

We’d love for you to come back and visit. Come anytime.

You haven’t changed a bit.

Oh, it was nothing. I was delighted to do it.

That color looks wonderful on you.

No! The solo was beautiful. Why would you think you were flat?

Don’t worry about them. Kids don’t bother me.

We don’t watch much television.

That casserole was simply delicious.

I didn’t mean to call so early.

It’s just like riding a bicycle.

Your mother’s coming over. That’s wonderful, darling.

You can’t fool me.

I wouldn’t think of it.

Your roots? I never noticed.

Nice people don’t lie.

My mama didn’t raise no fool.

As long as it gets me there, I don’t care what kind of car I drive.

The light was yellow, officer.

Oh, no! I don’t mind working late.

I did the best I could.

I’ve just gotten used to the snoring.

Any time is fine with me.

I don’t mind paying taxes. It’s my duty.

No one ever found happiness just sitting around and rocking.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

I’ll whip you within an inch of your life.

Your brother adores you.

God didn’t make any ugly people.

You shouldn’t hit your sister.

I don’t have the time.

A Healthcare Promblem

Rick Santorum has given up his quest. That leaves only Mitt Romney and the rolly polly former Speaker from the congressional district to the west in the running. (Now, before you decide to send me an email about my description in the previous sentence of the body shape of Newt go Google a picture of him.) I realize I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm going to predict Governor Romney will get the nomination.

Pretty soon, President Obama and Governor Romney will be in a headlong marathon whose finish line in on a Tuesday in November. One of the big topics of debate, of course, will be health care. But neither will experience the health care frustration that is mine.

Here's the crux of that challenge: I'm entrusted with the responsibility of assisting my uncle to his many medical appointments. The interaction between my uncle and the doctor on these occasions usually go like this.

“Hello, how are things going?” the doctor will greet.

“Pretty good,” my uncle will reply, “for an old man.”

“Okay,” the doctor will respond. “Your blood pressure is good. You've lost a couple of pounds. I'm looking at the last lab tests and everything is progressing beautifully. This is good. Is there anything bothering you?”

“Well,” he'll say quickly, “there's this place on my arm.” He'll pull up his shirt sleeve and display his bicep, whereupon he'll point to what appears to be a large freckle. “Look at this. Do you think you should refer me to a specialist?”

“Let me see,” the doctor will say. And then he'll tell my uncle it's a natural by-product of aging. “We get spots like that as we grow older.” My uncle will state it looks “per-cancerous” to him. The doctor will offer to refer him to a dermatologist. My uncle will say he'd like that. It will be up to me to make the appointment.

I'm thinking back to my younger days. Old Doctor Massee, our family physician, didn't have benefit of the marvelous technological tools of today's medical practitioner. He used a stethoscope and probing fingers and knuckles to diagnosis. He kept us healthy despite his lack of modern equipment.

He had another unusual trait, however. He knew my name without having to glance down at my chart. Not only that, he knew my Little League batting average.

The modern doctor seldom uses his stethoscope; hardly ever probes with his fingers. He relies on his computer as he inputs the answers to his questions, and the lab work he regularly orders. And then he suggests a return visit in six months.

Now let me be clear. I did not attend medical school. I am not qualified to make a judgment upon the medical abilities of modern doctors. I scientifically do not know if this doctor or the one of my childhood is the better qualified.

There is one comparison I'm qualified to make. Back in the old days the waiting room experience, the probing fingers, and the discussion of how it might benefit me to choke up on the bat took about thirty minutes, forty tops.

I brought my uncle to his regularly scheduled appointment this morning. He was weighed and blood pressured at 11:30. It's now 1:10 and I'm still waiting for the doctor to walk in the door and say, “Hello, how are things going?”