Questing Parson

Death Came To Visit

Death came to visit last week, to virtually rip my heart from my chest. Death came and claimed the life of my beloved Lynn, unexpectedly, unfairly, in a most horrible of way.

Death came to visit last week. Lynn left this earth. My footsteps seem to echo in the hallway more loudly than before. Was this cold air tickling my neck as it oozes off the window panes behind me here before? I never noticed it when she was here beside me.

Death came to visit last week. Life is different now. I no longer have to time the cooking to coincide with her arrival. The closet hides a present that has no recipient. There are two cars in the driveway where only one now lives.

Death came to visit last week. My life was turned upside down. Death took her while I and her daughter held her in our arms, stealing the object of my love, the ground of my existence, the plans for my future. Has it always been this quiet here?

Death came to visit last week. I no longer have a wife; two children no longer have a mother and two grandchildren no longer have a Memo; and there were other step-children and grandchildren who adored her and are distraught. Death has this way of digging a hole in the very center of living.

Death came to visit last week. I am now alone, again. And yet there is a difference in alone and lonely. Death came to visit and she is gone, but there is so much death cannot remove.

Death came to visit last week. But death could not take away the memory of her smile, the sparkle in her eye, the whisper of her hope for the future, nor the promise of her faith.

Death came to visit last week and took my love away. Death did not take me. I am left to live. In the emptiness of her absence I hear the compelling whisper to live, to live with more purpose, to live with more meaning, to live with a zeal to taste the wonder of each moment.

Death came to visit last week. Death left me with a compulsion to infuse her lineage with the lessons of life she sought so diligently to teach, to know the difference in wants and needs, that stewardship is the art of planning for those who follow behind, that life's greatest beauty and life's most delicate treasure is found in the simple things – a wild flower in bloom, a child's smile, and expressions of appreciation and a hug for those who seldom are hugged, that a shared pot of soup can be the occasion of new beginnings, new friendships, new ministries, and new purpose.

Death came to visit last week. Death whispered in my ear before taking my love away and filled me with fear. But death is a liar. There are some things death cannot take away. Love is always mine and will always live. Memory is always mine and rekindles the presence of that now gone. The presence of her I discover is not dependent on the physical. Death's whispered threat is that, only a threat.

Death came to visit last week. Yet death left empty-handed. I am alive; I am so much alive with all we were together, and as long as I live she also will live.

To hell with you, death.

Hospitals Are Healing Places

Hospitals are interesting places. Big hospitals on the campuses of large universities are more so. The corridors seem to go on forever with polished floors reflecting the eerie light from the overhead florescent bulbs. Figures dart here and there, white smock coats with pockets filled with papers and medical instruments giving them an air of authority and mystery.

Hospitals are forbidding places. They are filled with strange machines, some of which blink and buzz, all of which are cold when they are pushed against the exposed flesh, many of which spew forth paper with exotic scribblings which those same figures in white smock coats study with wrinkled brows and find answers to questions the average person cannot formulate into words.

Hospitals are foreign places where languges are spoken in which patients and visitors are not fluent. “The DO is for an EEG for a neurological . . . .” said the young woman in the blue colored clothing to another similarily attired. “What is indicated,” said one of the white smock dressed men to another is “a watershed in MCA and PCS at the right parietal.” The other nodded in understanding.

Hospitals are sterile places where bottles and bottles of hand santizers sit at the ready at every doorway of every hallway that hands may be germ free upon encountering the patient or each other, where floors are washed to sparkling cleanliness and linens smell of careful cleaning and santizing.

Hospital are foreboding places where tubes and needles are inserted, monitors beep and buzz, arm cuffs pump up and then deflate, bodies are poked and cut and stitched and bandaged.

Hospitals are miraculous places where things that a generation ago were unheard of now seem commonplace such as hearts and other organs being replaced, backs being straightened, fevers soothed, limbs repaired, the workings of the mind mapped, and illness cured.

Hospitals are hopeful places, where families gather in crowded and tenseful waiting rooms, many often with tearful eyes, churning up hope against hope of a cure or successful procedure, hoping to speak once again to a loved one now out of sight in some cold room where knifes slice and clamps restrain and where those who do not own a white smock coat cannot go.

Hospitals are fearful places, places where the smell of fear is almost palatable. They are places were the worst imaginnings squeeze the heart in a dreadful grip and bring to the surface images of frailty and loss of function and death. In hospitals people wait in paralazing dread that the possible horrors described in the surgical consent forms might become reality.

But hospitals, most of all, are healing places. In hospitals the sick are made well and the lame given new limbs; broken hearts are literally made whole and deflated lungs filled with precious air. In hospitals the ravagers of productive life are defeated and people sent forth with another chance to live before they die.

A hospital can be a place of compassion. It was the day Dr. Subhashini Ramesh, a Neurologist at Emory University Hospital, didn't just tell me about my wife's condition, but sat me down beside her and held my hand as she assured me my wife would wake from the coma and though there was neurological damage she would wake and be mine again. And in that taking of my hand in her's not only my wife but I, also, was healed

Letter To A Sanctimonious Idiot

Bryan Fischer
Columnist
and
Director of Issue Analysis for Government and Public Policy
American Family Association

Dear Mr. Fischer:

I normally reserve this space for stories that revolve around the life of the Questing Parson, a retired pastor who still serves a small little church out in the country. They are stories, I hope, that keep things on a positive side and provide a chuckle here and there. I don't often express opinions outside the persona of “The Parson.” But in your case I have decided to make an exception.

I make the exception because you, sir, are … hmmm, how shall I put it? You are an idiot. Now my Mama would be a bit upset that I just called you an idiot. She would have told me I had to respect you because you're an ordained minister. But my Mama never had to put up with the damnable swill that spews from your mind.

How dare you question the correctness of awarding the Medal of Honor to United States Army Staff Sgt. Salvatore Guinta. While, in your column “The feminization of the Medal of Honor”, you acknowledge that Sgt. Guinta “took a bullet in his protective vest as he pulled one soldier to safety, and then rescued the sergeant who was walking point and had been taken captive by two Taliban whom Sgt. Guinta shot to free his comrade-in-arms,” you then say, “We have feminized the Medal of Honor.”

Here's where I get my assessment of your mental capacity” You point out that the Medal of Honor has been given in the latest conflicts for saving lives and for not killing people. And then you show your ass by stating: “When are we going to start awarding the Medal of Honor once again for soldiers who kill people and break things so our families can sleep safely at night?”

Let me get this straight. Taking enemy fire while dragging your fellow soldier to safety, chasing down two enemy thugs who are attempting to drag another soldier into captivity and then rescuing that soldier and dragging him back to safety all the while hearing the rounds whip around your space and knowing that at any minute your brains may be splattered all over the landscape is “feminine”?

I've read your biography, Reverend Fischer. You never served in the military did you? You've never known fear so penetrating your innards shake and your bowels contract, have you? You've never come face to face with the certainty of your immediate demise, have you? You've only pontificated from the safety of your closeted comfort and railed down judgment on anyone who does not share your disconnected view.

We have feminized the Medal of Honor by giving it to people who save lives rather than killing? Are you nuts? Have you read any of the scriptures on the right hand side of Malachi? There's a great story there about this fellow from Nazareth who taught that “Greater love has no one than to lay down one's life for another.” And that's what Sgt. Guinta practiced that day.

So go take a hike, you sanctimonious ____ (Well, there's a word I wanted to put there, but the memory of Mama washing my mouth out with soap prohibited it.) We both know if you were there that day with the smell of gun powder all around you, to say nothing of the smell of blood, to say nothing of the smell of fear, the panic, the confusion, the sound and the feel of projectiles flying all about you, would have placed you in such a panic that you would not have even attempted to match the feats of heroism for which Staff Sgt. Salvatore Guinta received the highest honor this nation can bestow. And praise God that he got that Medal for saving lives.

I fear you would just have stood there and pissed your pants.

And by the way, a lot of the members of my family have spilled blood on foreign soil in an attempt to save lives, including yours. So while Mama might have been mad about that sentence above, I'm also quite sure if she heard what you said and how you, by diminishing Sgt. Guinta's self-sacrificing exploits, diminished our loved ones who served, she would have slapped you silly.

I remain, one angry Parson,

The Reverend Guy Kent
Elder
The United Methodist Church
and
The Questing Parson

Is there A Heaven?

The call came, as they always seem to do, when the parson was engaged in completing a project that had been dragging for an indecent amount of time. It was one of those projects Ms. Parson seemed to have foremost in her mind when she thought the parson possessed some discretionary time.

It was a member calling to say she’d seen an ambulance leaving Houston Carver’s house a few hours before. “I was talking to Roger a few minutes ago and he said I should make sure you knew about this.”

“Do you know if Houston has had a relapse or something else?”

“How would I know, Parson?”

“I thought you might have called someone in the family.”

“Don’t you think that if they needed anything they would have called me?”

“Gracious,” said the parson, and then he bit his tongue. “Thanks for letting me know about this.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. Then she hung up.

The parson called the local hospital. Roberta, the switchboard operator, answered. “Hey, Roberta,” asked the parson, “how was the dance at the American Legion last Saturday?” Roberta was married to one of the deacons at a extremely conservative church. The parson was one of the few privy to the fact Roberta was not quite as conservative as her husband.

“Well, Parson, I didn’t stay long enough to judge them. When they announced there would be no dancing on the bar I got up and left in protest.”

The parson laughed and then asked, “Are you folks hosting Houston Carver in one of your suites?”

There was a pause and then Roberta replied, “No, Parson, we Houston’s not here.”

“Any chance he’s in the ER?”

“Hold on a minute and I’ll check.”

In just a moment she was back. “Nope, he’s not in ER. But if you promise to dance with me the next time I go to the Legion I’ll tell you where he is.”

“Well we be dancing the Tennessee Waltz or the Salty Dog Rag?”

“The Salty Dog Rag, of course.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Okay, I went ahead and called a couple of hospitals for you. He’s over at Regional Medical.”

“Thanks a bunch, Roberta.”

The parson got up headed to the bathroom where he showered and shaved. He then got dressed and headed to the car. It was a twenty minute drive to the hospital. The parson asked Rhonda’s counterpart what room Houston was in and headed up the elevator.

He knocked on the door and pushed it open slowly. Houston was not in the bed. He was sitting in the chair reading the newspaper. Except for the hospital gown he didn’t look a bit sick. But Houston was sick. He’d been sick a long time. The battle was hard, but Houston’s positive attitude so far had been equal to every setback.

“I expected to find you in bed,” said the parson.

“Well, I’ve had a little downturn, but they’ve given me some pep-me-up shots. I’m supposed to take them for several  days, then there’s a couple of tests, and maybe some more surgery.”

“Where’s Edna?” asked the parson.

“I sent her home. She doesn’t need to be hanging around here until when there’s nothing going on. She’s been not just a wife but a true blessing these last few years; she’ll be here twenty-four and seven” Houston folded his paper and placed it on the hospital table. “Have a seat, Parson,” he said. The parson sat in the chair facing him. “I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a difficult one, Parson,” said Houston.

“What do you mean?” asked the parson.

“Well, you know, they can’t keep operating, experimenting, and doing all the things they’ve done over the last three years. I just have this feeling I’m nearing the end.”

The parson started to say something but Houston held up his hand. “I’m not being pessimistic, Parson,” he said. “I’m just recognizing the fact that I’ve already beaten the odds by living as long as I have after the diagnosis.”

The parson didn’t argue. He and Houston had talked before about what lay ahead. Houston was under no illusions.

Houston’s face contorted into the biggest smile the parson had ever seen on his face. “You sure look worried, Parson,” said Houston. “Remember three years ago when I was beside myself that I was going to die?”

“I do,” said the parson.

“I’ll never know what possessed you to say what you did, but, boy, it jerked me up.” The parson stared at Houston. “When I said, ‘I’m going to die,’ you said, ‘Of course you are.’” Houston laughed again. The parson smiled at the remembrance. “And then I asked you what heaven was like and you said: ‘How would I know.’ That wasn’t what I expected, Parson. But that was what I needed.”

The parson leaned forward to speak. Houston held his hand up again. “I wanted you to tell me about angels and choirs and all that shit, Parson. I was scared to death that I was going to hell. And when I asked you if I might you gave me the same answer: ‘How would I know.’”

Houston now leaned toward the parson. “I want to thank you for that. I expect if you had given me the standard brand answers that night I would have given up on this religion stuff. But you told me that you hoped after death we kept learning, that you couldn’t conceive of ending this life without growing and maturing in understanding in the next. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me. It wasn’t very orthodox, but it sure spoke to me.”

Houston reached to the table and poured himself some coffee from the carafe. He held it out to the parson who declined with a motion of his hand. Houston took a long sip of his coffee.

“Don’t look so glum, Parson. If I die, well, here’s where I’m at now. If I die and there’s no afterlife I’ll never know it. But if I die and there is an afterlife it will be no time at all until I’m more theologically advanced than you.”

Houston laughed again. “Now get the hell out of here, Parson. You’ve got things to do. I’ll need you around when they do the surgery so you can sit with Edna.”

A few minutes later the parson walked back to his car and for some reason the opening lines to John Lennon’s “Imagine” kept playing in his mind.

 

Art and Talk of Illegal Immigrants

The parson sat at his favorite restaurant in the whole wide world, The Radial Cafe, located in the Candler Park area, an inner city neighborhood of Atlanta. Years ago he’d been pastor of the parish in which the café rested. And, while he had scrupulously observed the United Methodist maxim to not return to the church he’d once served, being retired, he’d made an exception as regarded The Radial Café.

It was his affinity for the Red Flannel Hash that had prompted his suggestion that some of the participants in a meeting later in the day at Emory University meet for breakfast as the famous eatery. The parson and his fellow clergy gathered in one of the spacious booths, and soon the foods were spread before them. The parson carefully sliced the egg, over easy, atop the other ingredients of the hash so as to maximize the intermingling of the flavors. He dove in and enjoyed the feast while studying the work of a local artist displayed about the room as was the custom of The Radial. While doing so the words of the conversation among the booth’s other occupants assaulted his consciousness.

“I know what you are saying,” said Mark Watson. “But it is a problem in the community I live in. Illegal immigrants are taking jobs away from Americans who want to work.”

“Well, I tell you, it’s a problem for the people of my parish,” said Henry Rawlings. “You know, last Sunday the scripture was about the Good Samaritan. I was really shocked as I listened to various conversations as to how intense are the feelings against these folks.”

As the conversation continued the parson became intrigued by the art work on the wall just above their booth. “Man Lost In the World” proclaimed the title neatly inscribed on the card below the piece and above the artist’s name. As hard as he tried, he could not locate the “man” in the piece and had determined the “man” was genuinely “lost.” He then concentrated on the painting above the adjacent booth, titled “Confrontation of Colors.” This piece he immediately determined was appropriately named.

“The problem is,” said Alfred Mantine, “the immigration problem is causing a problem around our parish. I mean, I don’t know whether or not the immigrants, legal or illegal, are taking jobs away from the people in our area. But everybody seems to think they are.”

As the conversation continued, the parson remained silent while he concentrated on the two delights before him, the work of the local artist and the flavors of the Red Flannel Hash. Eventually, the booth occupiers noted his absence of comment.

“Parson,” said Mark, “what’s your take on this immigration thing?”

The parson drew his eyes away from the predominately blue piece that hung above the cash register which seemed to be an interweaving of navy blue upon Robin’s egg blue all of which were interspersed with an aqua blue.

“I’m sorry,” said the parson. “I confess I’m not sure what you asked.”

“I asked what you thought about the immigration problem.”

The parson pushed his now empty plate toward the center of the table, then downed the remaining decaf in the porcelain mug. Then he said, “Well, if you’re talking about the immigration problem, my take on it is that there will always be an immigration problem as long as there are third world countries south of our borders. And if you’re talking about the people who risk their lives to come across that river and desert to obtain a better life in this nation, I think we need to ask ourselves if we are first talking about illegal immigrants or poverty-stricken children of God.”

Radial Logo from website of The Radial Cafe; Red Flannel Hash graphic by subscription to Clip Art [dot] Com.

Fallen

The parson had finished his inventory of the available lawn mowers at the Home Depot. A purchase had to be made to equip the two transitional houses his church supported for the summer. Having made a selection and determined that if he bought them one at a time he could transport them one at a time in his Honda, he went in search of a cart on which to load them.

Near the door, he looked this way and that for one of those flat carts. None were to be seen. As he turned to head back inside he was hailed.

“Hey, Parson, how are you?”

The parson looked toward the sound to see Woody Howard walking in the large doors with his father. The parson greeted both with enthusiasm. The parson had known Woody’s father for some time, off and on. Woody and he had become acquainted almost two years ago when Woody, his wife, and two children began to show up at the soup kitchen. Woody and his wife were unemployed. Woody had been laid off from his job. His wife had just gotten out of rehab. They were trying to get things together and provide for the children. The timing was terrible. The recession had just hit the area hard.

The parson remembered how his heart had gone out to them that first night they visited the church soup kitchen. While the parents tried to be sophisticated and disguise their reasons for being there, nothing could cover up the obvious hunger of the children. The parson put feelers out on their behalf. There were not a lot of jobs available. He found one for Woody working on a chicken farm. It wasn’t glorious work and the pay wasn’t great, but the farmer was willing to give him a new beginning. A job was found for the wife doing custodial work at a nearby facility.

They continued to visit the soup kitchen regularly for a while. Then their visits became more irregular and then they didn’t come at all. The parson knew Woody had left the chicken farm job for a better one in a local mill. One of the mill supervisors had informed the parson Woody was a good worker and was secure in his job.

As they talked in the doorway of the Home Depot, the parson sensed Woody was on edge. He bounced from one foot to another and he kept wringing his hands. Finally, it came tumbling out.

“How’s your wife?” the parson asked.

The tears started flowing in a torrent. “She’s gone. She fell off the wagon. I was taking a shower one night after supper and she left; she just told the kids she’d be back later and she left. I didn’t see her for two days. It’s the meth, Parson. She’s on meth again. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Can you pray with me, Parson? I mean, I’m going to church regular. I don’t know. Do you think the devil just got to her? I haven’t seen her now for two weeks and the last time I did she was stoned.  I’m so confused, Parson.”

The parson looked around. He guided Woody to a recess where some boxes were stacked. And there he prayed with a broken man, a Christian man, who had pulled himself up from the depths of despair only to have it the fruits of his labor kicked from beneath him. And as he prayed he remembered the depth of those beautiful cobalt blue eyes of Woody’s wife and the promise he saw in them. And he remembered the laughter of those children clinging to their mother’s coat that first night at the kitchen. And, as Woody cried, the parson cried.

To Guarantee Or Not Guarantee

 The periodic breakfast gathering of the ordained took place at the appointed restaurant at the appointed time. This was a meeting the parson attended occasionally. It was not the appeal of the clergy that brought him but the buffet of cholesterol laden foods.

No sooner had the parson brought his plate with eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, grits, biscuits, butter and jam to the table, the conversation began. Bob Laidback was the first to mention the purple elephant sitting at the adjacent table.

“You guys heard about the possibility they are going to do away with guaranteed appointments?”

Edwin Slowstart responded, “What are you talking about?”

“There’s a commission that’s supposed to find ways of making the clergy more effective. And it looks like they are going to recommend removing the guaranteed appointment for elders.”

“How can they do that?” asked Marvin Complacent.

“The commission can’t, Marvin,” explained Bob. “But they are going to recommend to the General Conference elders no longer be guaranteed an appointment.”

“But if they don’t guarantee a church, well, that would be like setting somebody up to be fired.

The parson was taking in every word of the conversation as he consumed each particle on his plate. After he had sopped the plate with the remains of the biscuit he’d filled with grape jelly and drained the remaining liquid from his coffee cup, he turned in his chair to look toward the source of his gastric satisfaction as Allen Seldomup began talking about how the pastors could not always be held accountable for the bad church they were appointed to. Marvin Complacent was echoing Allen’s sentiments as the parson pushed his chair back from the table and headed off to appraise the buffet once again.

Returning to his place among the up-to-now secure clerics, this time with only two sausages, a small pile of assorted fruits, and a cinnamon twist, the parson deposited himself once again among the elders, expressing appreciation to the server who’d just refilled his decaf. 

Sid Everstriving was giving his take on the possible recommendation. “Look, fellows, we all know there are too many who take advantage of the system. When we have a minimum salary and a guaranteed appointment there’s no incentive for folks to work hard. And frankly, if we stopped reappointing ineffective pastors we would have a reason to close some ineffective churches.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” chimed in Harvey Dormant, “but how are they going to take into account a superintendent just not liking and wanting to get rid of a pastor?”

“What’s the matter, Harvey,” asked Bill Risingstar, “you’re not getting along with the superintendent?”

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it,” said Harvey, “we do have our differences and I’d be a little concerned if he had the power to fire me.”

“Well, I think doing away with guaranteed appointments is something that would help United Methodist,” Bill Ontop concluded.

“That’s easy for you to say,” replied Allen Seldomup, “you pastor a church that pays the highest salary in the district.”

The parson, having finished his cinnamon twist and drained the third cup of coffee now staked the plates so as to make clearing the table easier for the server. He pushed back from the table, picked up his check and started calculating the tip. As he did, Jim Diminished said, “Parson, you haven’t said what you think about guaranteed appointments.”

The parson stood and placed some bills on the table in preparation for leaving. “Oh, I’m not sure I should get into this, fellows. You see I’m retired; and my status is the most guaranteed in the group.”

The parson bid the brethren farewell. He headed out to the car where Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion waited. “Charlie,” said the parson as he started the car, “we need to go exercise. I want to be around to see who survives this no guaranteed appointment thing.”

Charlie Brown made no comment. Truth be told his was the most guaranteed of all the appointments.

Graphic by subscription with Clip Art [dot] Com

Becoming One of Them

The parson was sitting on a sofa in the library of the big university that was home to the seminary, talking with a colleague of long standing and two relatively new clerics. 

Frank, one of the younger ones talked of encountering a person who worked with folks of a lower economic status. He described the man’s work, the type of clients he served and shared the story of a couple of successes.

Norman, the parson’s colleague, asked, “Is he a member of your church?”

“No, sir, he’s not,” said Frank, “but he occasionally attends.”

“You know,” said Norman, who was an instructor in pastoral care at the seminary, “I get the impression that although you praise this man’s work, you have some reservations about him.”

Frank contemplated the statement a moment, then replied. “I guess you’re right. Whenever he talks about his clients there’s an unease about him. Sometimes it comes off as being nervous; sometimes it comes off as a bit of superiority attitude. I don’t know what it is but it’s like he’s trying to place a barrier between him and the people he’s working for.”

Norman, always interested in people leaned forward. “What do you think is motivating this behavior.”

“Honestly?”

“Of course, honestly,” said Norman.

“I really think he’s operating out of a fear that he could become one of them.”

Norman sat back on the sofa. He turned his head toward the parson. 

“You’re quiet today. What do you think of Frank’s friend?”

“He seems to act like a lot of pastors I know,” the parson observed.