Questing Parson

I'm Tired, Really Tired!

Here's the deal folks. I'm really, really tired. I guess it's a combination of things pressing in, professional and personal. And, as much as I hate to admit it, my age may be a factor. One top of that I took on more than I should have lately. I've caught up on it all, but I've there's always more around the corner.

The long and short of it is I need a break, a complete break for a while. So, some really top notch preachers are filling my pulpit the next two weeks and Ms. Parson and I are out of here. We're headed out west to Utah, Wyoming, and Montana, and who knows where else. The only thing I know for certain is the next two Sundays will find me in Dave and Kim Pepper's churches, one each Sunday. I've always wondered which of them is the best preacher. Where we are on the other days depends on the toss of the coin when we get to a major intersection.

I've promised myself to make this a REAL vacation. So, the Parson's not going to blog while spending some quality time with Ms. Parson in the shadow of the Grand Tetons and looking out over majestic vistas.

So, that's all folks --- UNTIL OCTOBER 11TH.

No Longer Tired

The parson was tired dead tired. “Funny,” he’d told Ms. Parson only a few days before, “I didn’t realize I was old until this year.”

“Maybe you just need a vacation,” she replied.

“Maybe,” he said, But the fatigue was there.

The day had been long. Death seems to never come to a pastor when his time is empty. Crisis intervention counseling is never critical when the pastor has nothing on his plate. And this past week the demands had piled upon events and the events upon one crisis after another.

The parson looked at Ms. Parson’s understanding and playful smile and smiled back. He then put his head upon the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and drifted.

A snort startled the parson to wakefulness. It was with astonishment he realized the snort had in actuality been his snore. He shook his head into consciousness.

Ms. Parson, smiled more. “Enjoy your nap?”

“I wasn’t taking a nap. I was resting my eyes.”

Ms. Parson said not a word. She continued to altar the uniform of the Georgia State Trooper that was spread across her lap.

The parson rose, headed to the kitchen, retrieved a beverage, returned to the sofa and turned his attention to Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson’s quest to become Chief of the LAPD.  As the show ended he realized she didn’t, but also realized he had not the foggiest why she did not.

In frustration, the parson picked up the notebook and placed it on his lap. He clicked on the Mozilla icon and headed to his email box.

The first email was from a former member. “Remember the Tuesday Teens?” he asked at the beginning of the epistle.

The parson did remember the Tuesday Teens. During his tenure as pastor of an inner city church, the social worker at a shelter for homeless women with children had approached him. The regulations of the shelter provided for no real follow up for children over the age of twelve whose mother had left the shelter. She asked if the parson’s church could develop some program.

The parson called on his Associate Pastor, Jan. She organized the group of children into what became known as the Tuesday Teens.  Every Tuesday when school was over they headed by the rapid rail system on tickets provided by the city to the parson’s church. There they engaged in self-esteem activities, in sharing their frustrations, in their struggle to keep their families together, and in a fellowship with Jan and the parson.

Of course, as is the case with such programs, the bishop in his wisdom decided Jan needed her own church and appointed her to a well-deserved status as senior pastor of another congregation. It was then the parson called upon his daughter to oversee the program. She commuted into the inner city every Tuesday to continue what Jan had started.

When the parson retired and moved, the program fell victim to differing pastoral priorities and vanished. Often over the years the parson had wondered about those kids.

Yes, indeed, the parson remembered the Tuesday Teens. The email continued:

“So, Parson, you may or may not know that I was laid off,” said the man who had driven those teens home in the church van every Tuesday. “And when I found myself unemployed I decided to go to school and get another advanced degree. Well imagine my surprise when I felt a tap on my shoulder the other day and turned to see David standing there with his big smile. We had a good visit and are going to see each other often at the school.

“David sends his regards. He also wants you to know that his brother, Jim, is doing really well. He graduated from a technical school and has started his own company that, despite the economy, is doing pretty good. And Peter, his other brother, is living further south and has a Masters degree.

“Thought you’d want to know, Parson, the Tuesday Teens have left the problems of their former environment and created a much better one in which each lives.

“By the way, Parson, we’re working of a date, real soon, when the Tuesday Teens will come to see you.”

“The parson powered off the notebook. He sat it on the coffee table.

“You really are tired,” Ms. Parson repeated.

The parson remembered the day he conducted the funeral for the brother of those three who was the victim of a gang shootout. He remembered his pleading they not retaliate, the prayers for them and finally with them. He forced down the lump in his throat and replied, “Not anymore. Not anymore.”

Free Is What Flavor?

Regina Weston had called in sick. The parson, therefore, along with his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, showed up at the Soup Supper Monday around noon, leaving him five hours to get the evening’s dinner completed.

He’d just finished chopping the onions when Zelda Marion came by and pretty much demanded to talk about the lack of instruction in one of the Sunday School classes. The parson tried to be cordial, to listen to her in compassion, but in addition to the onions there were other preparations to be made. Finally, she left. The parson headed back to the kitchen, finished the preparations of the soup’s ingredients, placed them along with the proper amount of broth in the kettle and turned the eye on.

Jeffery Kempton arrived about that time. The parson sat down in the office to with him to hear his complaints of the lack of dedication among the young adults. While being polite, the parson couldn’t help but wonder how one generated enthusiasm with Jeffery, a young adult himself, complaining all the time. Finally, Jeffery left.

The parson headed back to the kitchen, placed a large sauce pan on the stove full of water, threw some tea bags in the water and waited for the boil. As he waited he pulled out the cornmeal and the other ingredients to make the cornbread. And that completed he began to open the large pan of peaches. Three inches around the edge the can opener broke.

“Come, Charlie Brown,” the parson called after lowering the heat on the pan with the water and tea bags. He rushed outside and across the highway to the store on the other side of the highway. There he purchased another can opener and he and Charlie Brown headed back to the kitchen and the preparations. The can now open he extracted the contents and began to create the peach cobbler.

A half hour before the scheduled opening Florence, the indigent woman who somehow endeared herself to the parson with her constant and creative attempts to extract money from his wallet, entered and called out, “Hey, Parson, I’m here and I’m starving.”

The parson did not need to answer. Charlie Brown, on hearing her voice, headed to greet her, knowing he was in for a full quarter hour of petting.

When the quarter till the hour point came, several of the volunteers arrived and relieved the parson of some of his anxiety at getting everything out in time. He took a moment and poured a glass of the tea, leaned back against a kitchen counter and relished his cool refreshment.

Ring. Ring. The phone called out.

The parson answered. The voice on the other end said, “Hi, are ya’ll having that soup thing tonight?”

“We are,” said the parson.

“Well, we’re calling to see if we might come.”

“Well, come on,” said the parson. “You’ll be welcome.”

“That may be,” said the voice, “but we need to know what kind of soup you’re having to decide if we’re coming.”

The day flashed through the parson’s mind. He replied, “It’s hot. It’s good. It’s ready. And it’s free.”

The Third Degree

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Parson, this is George Ripley.”

“Hey, George, how are you?

“I’m kinda tuckered out, Parson, to tell you the truth.”

“You’re not sick are you, George?”

“No, Parson, I’m not sick. I guess you forgot. I told you I’d cut the grass over at that lady’s house for you. I should have checked before I volunteered. Did you know that yard is three acres? Well I cut all three acres with a push mower today.”

“Oh, George, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were doing that today. And I sure didn’t know you were planning to do it with a push mower. I thought you had a riding mower.”

“I do, but it’s messed up. So I went ahead and cut it with the push mower.”

“I can’t thank you enough for that.”

“Well, don’t worry, Parson. It’s not going to happen again.”

“I don’t blame you, George, three acres is too much for someone your age to cut with a push mower.”

“I beg your pardon. The day I’m too old to cut three acres of grass will be the day they put me in the home.”

“Sorry, about that George. If the grass is no problem, why is it not going to happen again?”

“That woman who lives there, that’s why. Look, I’m finished with the grass and I’m sitting on the tailgate of the truck drinking a bottle of water before I go home. So, the woman who lives there comes driving up the driveway. She pulls up next to me and starts asking me what I’m doing there. Can you imagine that; she asks me what I’m doing there. Didn’t she see the mowed grass when she drove up? What am I doing there? Then I tell her I’m from the church and I’ve just cut the grass. So, she says, if you’re from the church tell me the name of the pastor. So I tell her you’re the pastor. Then she asks me where you live. She grilled me, Parson. She gave me the third degree. I’d just cut her whole yard and she gives me the third degree.”

The parson checked his watch as George carried on. He interrupted. “George, how long have you been home?”

“How long have I been home? I just got home. I got home and called you first thing.”

“George, take the phone with you and go to the bathroom.”

“What?”

“Humor me, George. Do it.”

There was a pause. “Okay, Parson, I’m in the bathroom.”

“George,” said the parson. “That woman has two young girls living in that house with her. Now, look in the mirror and tell me if you can figure out why she questioned you.”

The parson waited. After a moment he heard George laughing. Then came the voice, “Okay, Parson, I get it. I do look a bit worn for the wear. Okay, I’ll get the riding mower fixed and maybe next time I won't look so bad she has to give me the third degree."

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Time At the End of A Tiring Day

A long way from home, the parson turned in that direction. A day visiting a member, now living out-of-town with a relative while recovering from a debilitating illness, followed a late night session in the emergency room where he was filling in for the chaplain. 

Thirty miles on the journey, the parson pulled into a convenience store. He purchased a Peppermint Patty and a bottle of V-8 juice, a strange combination to be sure, but the parson needed to make himself more alert. Twenty miles further the candy bar long gone and the V-8 consumed, the parson realized the attempt was futile.

 “Next Rest Area Fifty-Two Miles” read the sign, inviting the driver to take a break at this one. The parson exited into the area. Checking the sun he found a spot that would be in the shade fro a while. He pulled in, lowered the car windows a few inches, pulled out his iPhone and set the timer for forty-five minutes. He let the seat back, removed his shoes, and closed his eyes.

The sounding alarm was like the blast of the air horn of a semi. The parson jumped upright. He looked around to get his bearings, checked the time, slipped on his shoes and stepped out of the car. He walked around for three or four minutes before heading to the restroom where he splashed cold water on his face. Back in the car, he adjusted his seat, turned the key and began to pull out of his space.

Merging into the traffic, he set the cruise control, turned on the radio and headed home at a steady pace while listening to the happenings of the world on NPR. If he was lucky, he realized, he’d be able to get home in time to help Ms. Parson cook supper and to enjoy the rest of an evening with no appointments scheduled.

The iPhone rang. The parson pushed the button on the “No Hands” device.

“Hello.”

“Parson, Ben Watson here.”

“How are you Ben?”

“Not bad; not bad. Look I was wondering if you’d be available for a meeting of the Planning Committee tonight. I know this is the last minute but Roger, Helen, Jim and I are all able to be there. So, we thought maybe you’d agree to have the meeting tonight.”

“I”m sorry, Ben,” said the parson. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I have something on my calendar.”

“That’s too bad. Would it be okay if we meet without you?”

“That would be fine, Ben.”

“Okay, thanks, Parson.”

“No problem, Ben. See you Sunday.”

As soon as Ben said Good-by, the parson hit the “End Call” button.

“Hi, Sweetheart,” said Ms. Parson as he walked in the door. “Ben Watson called and wanted you to be at a meeting tonight.”

“I heard about that,” said the parson, “but you’re the only thing on my calendar tonight.”

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