Questing Parson

Something To Wash the Sandwich Down

The parson was headed out the door of the local establishment. He'd been replenishing his supplies. Charlie Brown was patiently waiting in the back seat of the car. The parson opened the trunk and placed the package inside.

As he closed the trunk the parson noticed Mike Houston, pastor of the Congregation of the Righteous Followers of the Striving to Be Redeemed Brethren of the Everlasting Sanctified Fellowship, pulling up to the side parking area of the store. The parson moved toward his driver's door, started to open it and, as he did so, noticed out of the corner of his eye that Mike has made a 180 degree turn and was headed across the street toward a sandwich shop. The parson also noted the sandwich shop was not open. It wouldn't be open for another half hour. And then he watched Mike, after pulling on the door, walk around the sandwich shop to whatever was in that field out behind it.

The parson smiled. He went back to the trunk. He removed one of the items from his shopping. He pulled out a card and wrote on the back of it, “Here's something to wash that sandwich down.” He carried both the card and item across the lot and placed them in the driver's seat of Mike's car.

Political Observations

The parson walked down the sidewalk of the mall after checking the prices at a local store for comparison at another. He stared at his iPhone calendar to determine where he needed to be next and when.

“Hey, Parson, better watch out you'll walk into a pole.”

The parson looked in the direction the voice came. He saw Watson sitting on a bench. Watson wasn't his real name, the parson knew. He'd got the name from his incurable habit of saying, “Certainly, Holmes.” Watson was one of the more colorful characters the parson had encountered.

“Watson, what are you doing here? Soaking up some business possibilities?” Watson often told the parson he'd change his homeless condition when the right business possibility presented itself. Truth was Watson was well-educated. This was evident, but he refused to divulge how he came to be living under a bridge without resources or purpose. His lifestyle defied his appearance. Somehow Watson always appeared clean; he took good care of his clothes, and very few realized his circumstance.

“Have you eaten today?” the parson asked.

“Not yet,” said Watson. “I've been trying to formulate which culinary establishment would afford me the most nutrition for the lowest price.”

The parson smiled. “Have you given any thought to that Burger King over there?”

“Well, now there's a strange thing about the Burger King, Parson. The ambiance isn't all that impressive. One would need good company if one were to even consider consuming a meal there.”

“How about the two of us testing the cuisine together?”

“Certainly, Holmes,” replied Watson as he rose from his bench.

The two walked across the parking lot, the side street and then into the Burger King.

“What'll you have?” the parson asked Watson as they stood before the counter.

“I'm going to bow to your pallet, Parson,” said Watson.

The parson placed his order, one of the combo meals for each of them with an extra order of fries for Watson. He carried them to the table Watson had selected, one that gave a view out two windows.

As soon as they'd removed the wrappings, Watson suggested, “How 'bout you asking a blessing on this food, Parson.”

The parson prayed. Watson echoed the “Amen,” and the two dug in.

“So, what's been happening with you lately, Watson. I haven't seen you about for a couple of months.”

“I've been busy following the Republican candidates,” said Watson. “I get down to the library just about every day. I read the papers, the New York Times and The Washington Post on the internet. I've been reading a lot on that Politico site and the Huffington Post.

With just a few questions from the parson, Watson discussed each of the candidate's relative strengths and weaknesses. The parson was astonished at how informed Watson was. He'd even researched each candidate's background, and gave the parson much information he'd not heard before. And as they talked the parson was amused that Watson lost his professorial tone in direct proportion to the amount of food that entered his stomach.

“So, who do you think will be the candidate?” the parson asked.

“Romney.” said Watson.

“What about the election?” the parson asked. “Who'll win, Mitt Romney or President Obama.”

“Too soon to call that, Parson, but I can tell you who will lose.”

“You can?”

“I can.”

“Tell me.”

“The loser will be the American people. And the reason for that is just like the church you serve. We're always going to be losers until the politicians and the preachers start planning for what's best for our grandchildren.”

Paying Forward

The folks were gathered in the church Fellowship Hall. It was Sunday afternoon and one of those rare moments in the life of a church. There were no committee meetings. There were no discussions of failing financial resources. There were no complaints, as far as the parson knew, of the pastor's latest foible. People were laughing, glad to see each other even though they'd seen each other only three hours before. The finger foods were being devoured with favorable comments about certain member's gastronomic delights.

And then it happened. He stood. He said, “Can I say something to everyone, please.” Everyone stopped what they were doing. Everyone sat down. He wasn't a member of the church. In fact, it was the first time he'd set foot in the parson's church. But, intuitively, everyone knew they wanted to hear what he had to say.

He began the story. The story began two years before when he and his wife and their two teenage girls were living in an abandoned house because they were homeless. There was no electricity in that house. There was no running water. But it offered shelter from the rain. And then the family advocate in the school system had put them in contact with the social worker whose work was financed by the parson's church.

He talked of being accepted into the parson's church's transitional housing program, of moving into the church's parsonage. He told of the struggles to overcome bad habits, to learn how to budget, to make right decisions in anticipation of events not to come in years. He talked of him and his wife obtaining meaningful employment. He talked of the classes at the technical college. He talked of the daughter who was not present at the reception excelling in college. He talked of the daughter who was at the gathering making plans for her college education. He smiled broadly as he related their relationship with the social worker who was, according to him, part angel and part drill instructor. He talked of the new place he and his family were moving to this week, of how they'd been decorating it, furnishing it. When he finished there were no dry eyes in the room.

As the day wound down and the celebration came to a close, the parson walked outside with the younger daughter. “So,” the parson asked, “what are you planning to study when you go to college?”

“I'm going to get a degree in social work,” she said. “Then I'm going to do for some family what this church has done for mine.”

Some days, it's good to have an extra Sunday afternoon meeting.

A Perfect Day

Consistent was the day. The morning was quiet and progressed toward noon with a quiet, slow progress. The parson willingly and effortlessly synced himself with the day, his countenance reflecting its ease and peace.

Noontime announced the continued march of time, but the day moved still slowly forward. The parson closed the now finished John Grisham novel, rose from his chair and headed to the kitchen. There cucumbers, tomatoes, onions and a few beans were chopped, tossed into a skillet, doused with raspberry blush vinegar and cooked slowly as the parson dished a spoonful of leftover sausage casserole on a plate and placed it in the microwave.

The parson ate the meal as he began reading E. Brooks Hollifield's book on the history of the clergy in America. Long after the meal was consumed the parson continued to read, the laid back day seemingly refusing to intrude. The end of chapter three was punctuated by the arrival of mid-afternoon.

With no particular rush the parson rose, gathered the plates and skillet into the sink and began to wash and rinse. Task completed, the parson retrieved a dishcloth and began to dry. Nothing more pressing was occupying the day.

Mid-afternoon began an imitation of morning, each hour content to dwell as long as possible before the arrival of the next.

“Come,” said the parson. Charlie Brown, the parson's faithful canine companion, rose from his resting place, extended his front legs forward and attempted to move his back into a “U” shape. Straightening his back he then extended his back legs outward, one after the other. Stretched, he moved to the door and waited for the parson to put on his sweater.

The walk in the woods behind the parson's house was leisurely. Only Charlie Brown's occasional break from sniffing and marking to dart here and there gave contrast to the day's settled pace. Even the wind seemed hesitant to rustle the leaves.

Eventually, despite the reluctance of its happening, the blazing red prelude gave way to darkness' insistence on closing the door to the sky. Day was gone. Night, however, moved no faster.

Even with night as uneventful as day, the parson face a choice. He could watch the salmon bake in the oven or search for something to watch on Hulu. He chose Hulu.

Charlie Brown approached, placed his left paw on the parson's knee and made a long, low, growling sound. The parson's choice was now interrupted by Charlie Brown's never-to-be-denied appetite.

Eventually, the hours moved close to tomorrow. The parson moved down the hall to the bedroom. He pulled the cellphone from his pocket to plug it into the charger. He stared. Realization brought understanding.

A meeting the night before prompted the parson to power off the phone. Only now did he turn it on. There were seven text messages and fifteen voice mails. The parson read and listened. Nothing was urgent. He looked at the clock. There was time to respond to a few. The parson paused. He pondered the messages and he pondered his day.

Placing the phone on the table beside the bed, he plugged it into the charger, looked at Charlie Brown and said, “Why ruin a perfect day?”

The Sunday Morning Shakedown

The parson had come to church early on Sunday morning. He'd prepared a nice, he thought, breakfast, eggs, sausage, bacon, biscuits, for those who would make it to Sunday school. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. There was a bit left over as the attendance was off a bit. But all seemed to have enjoyed and were now about to head to their various classes.

It was at that time the parson made his way back into the fellowship hall to grab a cup of decaf. Florence was sitting at one of the tables consuming a large portion of the vittles.

“Morning Florence,” the parson said, as he headed toward the table with the decaf pot.

“Morning, Parson,” said Florence. “They said you cooked this morning. You know what, you're a really good cook. What did you do with these eggs? They are really good. I think you put the exact amount of pepper in them. Hey, did you cook these with butter?”

The parson looked back over his shoulder at Florence. He said nothing. He poured his coffee and headed to the media room behind the sanctuary. Earlier he'd discovered that somehow the scripture lesson had been left out. He needed to add it before the service began. Florence watched him head that way.

The parson had almost completed his updating of the media when Florence plopped herself in the last pew of the sanctuary. It was the pew in front of the media room. The door was open.

“You know something, Parson?” asked Florence.

“No, Florence, I don't. But I bet you're going to tell me.”

“Well, I thought I might,” said Florence. “You know I need new brake shoes on my van. So, I thought I might be able to sweep up the fellowship hall or maybe wash the dishes after church. Then you'd be able to go about your business without any hassle. I mean, look at it this way: You'd get the kitchen cleaned; the Lord would see me giving something back to this church that helps me so much; and I'd get a real kick out of helping out the church. And if you see it my way, I'm thinking maybe $30 would hold me over until my government check comes in at the end of the week. So, what do you think?”

The parson paused his work on the computer. He looked up at Florence and said, “What I think, Florence, is I'm tired of giving you money for your van, especially when it's something you took care of two months ago. You need to keep a record of what you beg money for. I gave you money to fix the brake shoes on your van three months ago.”

“I know that,” said Florence. “Did you think I'd be ungrateful on that? Goodness, Parson, I know you gave me money for that. The thing is, Ed Grimes did the brake job, and if you know Ed Grimes he can't be trusted. So, I had someone else put look at them and they told me Ed kinda did me bad. So, I need the $30 to fix what Ed Grimes messed up.”

The parson, during this exchange, had been able to get the scriptures on the slides for the media presentation. Now, he realized the colors on the lyrics of the hymns and prayers was not sharp enough. He needed to adjust for that.

“Look, Florence,” he said. “Here's $20, now don't come asking me for money until November 20th. Deal?”

“Well, that seems like a deal to me.”

“Okay, Florence. You staying for church?”

“Goodness, gracious, no, Parson. Look at me. I don't fit in here. Nope, but I'll see you tomorrow at Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen.”

“Good-bye, Florence.”

“Good-bye, Parson,” she called out as she headed down the center aisle. “God bless.” She got to the side door of the sanctuary and paused. She shouted across the sanctuary to the parson. “Hey, Parson, I don't think them people in Sunday school are going to be able to eat all that stuff you cooked. How about I get me a couple of Tupperware things out of the cabinet and take the balance home. It would be sorta a takeout. I'll bring the containers back tomorrow. Okay?”

The parson didn't say anything. But he knew there would be no leftovers to put up after Sunday school.

Why She Keeps Coming Back

The parson began the Sabbath with his plan to ensure he'd stay at the church another year or two. He arrived early, slapped the sausage patties on the grill, smacked down two packs of bacon on another grill, mixed the pancake mix, scrambled the eggs, and generally provided a pre-Sunday school feast for the membership. The parson's strategy involved his theory that preachers are a dime a dozen, but a parson who can cook is hard to come by.

The feast ended. The Sunday school began. The parson retreated to a quiet corner to review his sermon. Halfway through the Sunday school hour he headed back to the kitchen to get something to drink. As he filled his mug he heard someone in the fellowship hall, part of the adult class that met there, chime out, “There's some food on the table, Florence, get some.”

The parson peered through the pass-thru window and spied Florence dishing up a hearty meal. He pondered for two seconds what brought her to the church so early on a Sunday morning. It was on the third second of his pondering he surmised why. Florence needed some assistance. Florence was the most gracious but persistent beggar the parson and the parson's congregation had ever encountered.

Apparently, Florence left after consuming the parson's gourmet breakfast. But when the service was over and the parson walked back to the fellowship hall Florence was back.

“Parson,” she called out, “I need to talk with you.”

“What do you need?” the parson asked.

“I need some groceries. I've figured it up and I think thirty dollars would cover it.”

“I'm not going to give you any money, Florence,” the parson said. “But I will buy you some groceries. Make me a list and we'll talk about what I'll buy or not buy.”

The parson headed back into the sanctuary to talk with a member about a project. When he returned, Florence held up a paper towel on which she'd written out her list. The parson sat down and the two negotiated what he would and would not purchase for her. Florence was diabetic and her choice of groceries did not always enhance her good health.

“Okay, Florence,” said the parson. “I'll have this for you at the Soup Supper tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” she said. “Hey, do you think you could help me out with some brake repairs on my truck.”

“Not today,” said the parson. “It's Sunday. The bank is closed.”

Florence looked at the parson a moment with her head cocked to the side. Then. she responded, “Okay, I get it. You told me last week no more money until November. Right?”

“Right,” said the parson.

Florence smiled, “Okay, Parson, but thanks for the groceries. I'll be here tomorrow.”

The parson bid her good-bye. After she'd left a church member came and sat down beside the parson. “How come we're always helping Florence?” he asked.

“Because,” said the parson, “she's really good at what she does. And we're really good at what we do.”

My Sister's Keeper

The parson headed up the stairs of the apartment complex, a senor citizen village with rent based upon income. He was delivering some meals to two semi-home bound members of his church. They were two sisters living in adjacent apartments.

Knocking on the first apartment door he waited patiently for the older sister to come to the door. Eventually, she got there. The parson knew it wasn't her ninety-four years that slowed her as much as she never allowed herself to be seen without proper makeup and such.

“Hello, Parson,” she said, as she swung the door wide. “Come on in. It's really nice to see you.”

“Thanks,” the parson replied. “How about some chicken and dumplings for dinner.”

“Oh, my goodness, that will be wonderful,” she replied. “Can you stay ah moment?”

“Sure,” the parson said. “But not too long. I've got a few more of these to deliver.”

“I understand,” she said. “But I wanted to talk to you about my sister.”

“Is something wrong?” the parson asked.

“Oh, it's nothing catastrophic,” she smiled. “It's just I'm really concerned about her. She just doesn't get enough exercise. She sits there and watches television all day. I swear, Parson, she acts like an old woman with one foot in the grave. And she won't listen to a word I say.”

After a few more recitations on her sister's lifestyle, the parson excused himself to make his next delivery.

That delivery was next door. It was to her sister. Again the parson knocked on the door and waited a moment. As was usually the case he heard a voice calling out, “Come on in; the door's unlocked.”

The parson entered and saw her sitting in a recliner. As he'd been informed she was watching television. It was a pregame program discussing the Bears vs Lions game. As the parson came closer she picked up her clicker and muted the television.

“I think the Bears will take it tonight,” she said.

“I'll take your word for it,” said the parson. “I learned long ago you're more of an expert than I am on the NFL.”

The parson held out his package. “Could you use some chicken and dumplin?”

“Gracious, yes,” she relied. She sniffed the air. “I can smell it. I bet Alice Ponder cooked it.”

“She did,” said the parson. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“I'm sure I will, Parson.” she said. She leaned her eighty-nine-year-old frame toward the parson. “Can I talk with you a second about my sister.”

“Sure,” said the parson, lowering himself onto a footstool.

“I'm really concerned about her. You know, she's no spring chicken, but she acts like she doesn't need to be concerned about anything. I keep telling her she doesn't need to be so active. She should face the reality of her age and slow down.”

The parson nodded but said nothing.

“Did you know last week she went on some outing into the mountains. I mean they didn't just drive around. They hiked. Can you imagine that at her age. I wish you'd speak to her for me.”

She spoke a while longer. The parson made no commitment. After he'd excused himself he headed back to his car where Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, waited on the backseat.

“Sorry, that took so long,” said the parson to Charlie Brown, “But they are both their sister's keepers.”

Bless Me, Reader, For I Have Sinned

I had not intended to stop there. The store was eighty miles away. But heading toward home from a funeral I saw it. Why not stop and pick up the few items on my list?

It was a large store with more than the usual fare for a grocery establishment. There were delicacies all about. I took my time working my way down the list as I explored the aisles and wishing such a place existed in my valley. I came to the end of Aisle 17 and turned up Aisle 18. It was the wine and beer aisle.

Bear with me now for some background.

During the summer of my twelfth year we moved. The place to which we moved was a dream come true. There were woods and streams all about. Over the hill behind my house there was a large pond where in a couple of years my new friends and I would build a raft upon which we wasted many an afternoon.

The backyard was overgrown with wild shrubs and saplings scattered among the large, very large, pines and hardwoods. My assigned chore was the clearing of this area. Being the good child I was I set about the task with my usual good humor. It was in the clearing of the yard I discovered the vines. They fascinated me. I cleared the area around them and then erected a chicken wire frame upon which the vines could take hold.

They were Muscadine vines. As I, along with my friends Luther, Charlie and Jack, also newly moved into the area, explored we found more muscadine vines near the pond, lots and lots of them, acres of them. It wasn't long before we had mastered the art of placing a muscadine between the front teeth, clamping down in a steady but slow increase of pressure until the innards of the fruit exploded into the mouth, the sweet, sugary, gummy part bringing pleasure to the pallet. In time one masters the art of separating the seeds from the pulp and spitting them without losing any of the sweetness. We also learned how to avoid the sourness of the peel.

It was in my fifteenth year that I and my friends, Luther, Charlie and Jack, learned a new word. It was called fermentation. Jack's house possessed a basement into which his parents never ventured. There in the dark coolness the newly filled bottles were kept. We filled lots of bottles. It was an exercise in patience for teenage boys to squish enough muscadines to produce that much juice. We did it. There was no internet then, no Facebook, no DVDs, nothing to distract from what adventures we did have.

Perhaps the real mark of our unique abilities was the secret was never divulged. The fruit of our labor was ours. We never shared.

Memories of those days came back as I walked down Aisle 18. There on the second shelf from the bottom, about a third of the way down the aisle, I saw it. “Chateau Elan Muscadine, Georgia Muscadine Wine.” The Chateau Elan Winery is located about twenty miles from the site of our teen years vines. Hmmm.

The bottles sat on the kitchen shelf for two weeks. Every time I walked into the kitchen they whispered, “Remember?”

Last night, I resisted no more. With the expectation of a teen in a dark, cool basement where no parent ventured, I removed the cork. The unique pungent aroma of muscadine transported me back to those vines of my youth. I poured the fermented liquid into a wine glass.

In the living room I activated my Heather Masse station on Pandora. Turned the light on the end table on and the overhead light off. With the finesse of a connoisseur I held the glass beneath my nose savoring the scents that took me back to long ago. With a slow, deliberate, motion I brought the nectar of my youth to my lips and partook of memories. OMG, this was even better than days imbibing in Jack's basement.

Bless me, Reader, for I have sinned. I overslept this morning and the bottle is empty.

Our Daily Bread

“So, Parson, what's up with that advertisement on your sign?” asked Roger Bennet, a lay pastor who lived a little north of the parson's church. “I just drove by there and saw it. You folks must have some kind of supper every month.”

“I don't know about every month, Roger,” said the parson. “But we're never adverse to giving you a reason to contribute.”

“Contribute. Right. If I contribute to anything it would have to be my church. We never seem to have enough money to pay out the year. I guess we ought to have those lunches and suppers like you guys to to pay the bills.”

“Roger, we don't have those things to pay the bills. Those things fund what we do beyond our normal giving.”

Roger sat down across the table from the parson and leaned forward. “Seriously, Parson, what's up with the greens and peas and stuff.”

The parson smiled and said, “About five years ago, Roger, we were trying to figure out how we could send some of our members on a medical mission trip to Peru. So, we thought about having a New Year's Day Lunch. We cooked up a bucket of greens and a bucket of black-eyed peas, shoved about six dozen sweet potatoes in the oven, hustled up some pies and cobblers from members as well as some good old cornbread. Then we invited people to come and eat with us and make a donation. They came, Roger. They came.

“Turns out,” the parson continued, “that New Year's Day is the one holiday when the family doesn't get together. We were surprised when senior citizens from all over the area showed up. We ran out of food. So, ever since we've had our New Year's Day lunch to raise money for missions.”

“And you don't use the money to pay the day-to-day church expenses?”

“We don't, Roger. The church bills and the denominational askings are paid out of the collection plate. But all the other ministries we finance separately.”

“You get enough money in the plate to pay all the regular church expense?”

The parson sat observing his friend a moment. He then said, “Here's how it works, Roger. We make a commitment to be a church in mission. Then each Sunday we all pray together, 'Give us this day our daily bread.” We ask God to give us the bread we need, Roger. And that's what God does. God gives us the bread we need and not one slice more.”

Hit Of The Family Night Supper

The parson sat in his office pondering a heavy question of ethics. He possessed knowledge that, one the one hand, should be disseminated to various members of his church. But, the dissemination of that knowledge could color the attitudes of those members toward another, or could in the case of a few could engender hostile feelings. The parson was stymied.

He sat back on the sofa and rested his head on the back. The stained glass window across from him glowed from the security light on the utility pole beside the parking lot. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, was curled in a ball beside the parson's now empty rocking chair, seemingly torn between watching for the parson's signal it was time to depart and drifting into slumber. The parson heard the distant voices of the people in the kitchen cleaning up from the Family Night Supper. Those people were part of the parson's ethical question.

It had begun when Florence, one of the sometimes homeless women who came to the soup suppers, decided she was part of the congregation. When word of the Family Night Supper rolled around, Florence made a decision to participate. Helen brought her fought-over squash casserole; Vivian brought her usual five bean salad; Alice plopped her secret recipe for an avocado dish with her usual fanfare of “Oh, I was so rushed today I just whipped something together.”

The table was full of dazzling dishes, delightful desserts, pitchers of tea and urns of coffee when Florence entered. She greeted the familiar faces from the soup suppers and bowed her head in a shy way when passing others she did not know. On the end of the table she placed her dish, whispering to the parson as she did so.

“Oh, Florence, that looks delicious,” exclaimed Wanda Carter in an effort to make her feel at home. “Let's put it up here with the other meats.” She moved Florence's offering to the proper place and then graciously introduced her to some other people.

The parson prayed the blessing and everyone formed a line to heap their plates full of the gastronomic gifts. Maybe it was a sign of the character of the church members, maybe it really did look delicious as Wanda had said; whichever it was, Florence's platter was emptied before half the people had an opportunity to select a piece.

The evening went well. Even those who'd not met Florence at the Monday Soup Suppers seemed pleased that one of “those homeless people” was taking part in the evening. And Florence endeared herself, infecting the people with her belly laugh at the appropriate times during the program. The evening was a smash. Florence walked out to her broken down Ford Ranger with her empty platter under her arm in the company of several members as though she was a charter member of the church.

It was shortly after her departure the parson bumped up against the ethical dilemma that drove him to his office to ponder his role as the moral leader of the church. As the parson walked through the kitchen where about five women and two men were cleaning up the conversation centered around Florence.

“I think it's wonderful Florence felt at home here,” said one.

“I do, too. And I must admit that dish she brought was delicious,” replied another.

“It was,” said one of the men. “I tell you from the texture of the meat I think that chicken was an open range hen.”

“Ah, now that you mention it,” said the woman at the sink, “that must account for the difference. I loved the flavor, but the texture was different.”

“You know, the parson said she lives in the outdoors in a tent. The woman is virtually penniless. I wonder how she manages free range chickens.”

It was at that point the parson retreated to the study to contemplate the ethics of sharing or not sharing his knowledge. And there he sat, as the members finished the kitchen police duty, unsure of what to do. He could not resolve his problem. In desperation he turned to Charlie Brown and said, “You know Charlie Brown, I'm not sure I know what a free range chicken tastes like. What do you think? Do you think I should tell them that Florence cooks up the best squirrel I've ever eaten?”