Questing Parson

Let's Keep In Touch

The parson received the text about five in the afternoon. Adam Trawick, an old, old friend updated him on his approach to the parson's town.

The parson and Adam had been the best of friends during college. Life had taken them in different directions. It was by chance they bumped into each other at a hospital in the Really, Really Big City. They'd promised to contact each other soon. Adam had followed through.

Adam had been meeting with an architect. Adam was the chairperson of the building committee at his church. They were planning on building a new sanctuary. It was going to be a very involved project. The church, the parson thought, was lucky to have Adam at the helm. Returning home from the meeting
Adam was passing through the parson's town.

The parson headed toward the coffee emporium. The two arrived at almost the same time. Inside the beverages were ordered. They took a sat at a table in the corner. The two began to catch up on old times, back when the parson and Adam had no cares and no woes, back when getting through Dr. Beckman's statistics class was the major challenge to an otherwise perfect existence, back when they were making plans to dazzle the world with their combined onslaught following graduation.

They both exchanged stories of children and grandchildren, of career paths followed and changed, of wives and lovers, and, even at their age, plans for the future.

Both now joked with each other over how their expectations had bumped against reality, how the conflict had tempered their ambition and sculpted them to find meaning in careers back then totally unexpected. And now they sat in the coffee shop reflecting on the unforeseen paths they'd taken.

“Remember, Vicki?” asked Adam.

“I'll never forget Vicki,” the parson smiled.

“Ever hear from her after graduation?”

“Never,” said the parson.

“Franklin Hodges, I wonder what became of him?”

“He's another one who vanished after school.”

“Strange, how people turn corners in life and just don't look back,” Adam reflected.

“I know what you mean,” the parson replied.

“How about Jeff Stewman?”

“Jeff came through town when I was in graduate school. We shared a pizza but I haven't heard from him since.”

“That is surprising. You guys were really close back in those days.”

“You know, that day he came through town. I remember we exchanged phone numbers and promised we'd keep in touch. He never called, and I don't know where his phone number is.”

Their conversation continued until night began to slowly close the door to the sky. Adam said he needed to head down the road. The parson acknowledged he had a few things to attend to. The rose, headed out to door to their respective cars, shook hands an.d hugged.

“You know, Adam,” the parson remarked. “Considering we're in our seventies, we probably shouldn't wait another twenty years to get in touch.”

Tumbling Attendance

The parson found himself on a cool Monday morning, a morning that whispered of the possibility of rain and yet was dazzling in its sunny brightness, among colleagues surrounding a table at the parson''s favorite diner. It wasn't a planned get-together. It simply happened. The parson was there early, as was his custom on Monday mornings. The others wandered in one at a time and joined him, pulling a extra table over to join his in order to accommodate the gathered. The parson, at the arrival of the first one, turned off his Kindle and tucked it into his coat .

The gathered brothers and sisters had maneuvered the parson into the corner. He had no escape. The more of them that gathered about the, now, three tables, the more the words of John Muir echoed in his head, “The mountains are calling and I must go.” The parson and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, had scheduled this day for a hike, one thousand feet down, to the bottom of Cloudland Canyon where Charlie Brown would rest as the parson prayed for strength to hike back up. The uninvited intrusion of the brothers and sisters were delaying his answer to the call.

Soon the parson, as he sipped his decaf and listened to the interchange of the ordained, learned the topic of the week was falling church attendance. The parson learned lots of interesting facts as he listened. He learned that the pastor of the supposedly really big church, was not preaching to many more people that was the parson on any given Sunday despite the fact he had three services. The parson learned that from county seat church to little chapel by the river congregations attendance was down. The parson could not help but feel a bit of comfort in the falling attendance of his brothers and sisters. For, truth be told, his was down also.

The conversation continued. The parson realized that his position against the wall destined his continued listening. He made a hand motion to Louise, the server. She nodded and quickly brought him a fresh cup of decaf. Now there were discussion of why. The pros and cons of the differing strategies to combat the falling attendance was not being discussed.

At one point someone said, “Parson, do you have more than one service?”

“No, we don't,” the parson replied.

“Why not?”

“Well, it's this way,” said the parson. “When your council brought that idea up I told them I was for it as soon as there were chairs in every aisle and speakers were blasting my words to the people assembled in the parking lot.”

“Don't you think more people would come if you had more than one service?”

The parson looked at the pastor of the supposedly really big church and smiled. “Actually, no I don't think that,” the parson replied. “I think if they thought I was actually as good as I think I am they'd come at any time I preach. But, you know, over all the years no one has made that connection.”

“Funny, Parson, funny,” said the pastor of the Chapel in the Woodlands Beside the Bubbling Brook. “But seriously, what about the declining attendance?”

“What about it?” the parson asked.

“What are we going to do about it?”

“I don't have the foggiest idea,” said the parson. “All I know is we can't keep trying what we tried yesterday and the day before, because that doesn't work.”

The parson shifted himself in the chair and then asked, “Would you guys excuse me now. I've got something on my schedule I need to attend to.”

An Aging Event

The parson headed home. He pondered how to describe the evening. It was different. It was different, to be sure. The folks he'd been with were different. They were so different than the last time he'd seen them.

The event was a birthday celebration. The place was a tavern down in the really big city where for sixty years politicians had gathered to discuss the future of the city, the county and the state. There were a couple dozen celebrants there. They'd responded to the invitation: “Let's meet at Manuel's Tavern to celebrate our birthday.” No one needed directions. The tavern was just a hop, skip and a jump from the high school they'd graduated from fifty-two years before.

When the parson walked in he thought at first he had arrived at the wrong time. He walked through the establishment, from one end to the other. He didn't see any of his classmates. He noticed a few people at a table staring at him. Tentatively, he approached. One called his name, then another. The parson stared. Who were these people?

The last time he'd seen any of them was at the twenty-fifth reunion. A few wrinkles then were in evidence, a lack of muscle tone was noticeable. But now ….

Well, it's was difficult for the parson to get his mind around. Some of them actually looked like they were seventy. The parson praised the Lord his birthday wasn't until December.

About the Colors

“Okay, Parson,” said the passing-through-town friend as she stood in the middle of a small bedroom that used to be Ms. Parson's sewing room and which was now stripped to the sub-floor with walls possessing marks from sanding to make them smooth again. “You're converting this into a 'grandchildren's room?”

“And you're going to have a trundle bunk bed here, a small love seat there, a computer desk there. Right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I think that's going to look really super. But you're going to paint the walls purple, green, red and yellow?”

“That's it.”

“Why in the world would you use that many colors and that combination?”

“Well, purple is the favorite color of the oldest granddaughter; green is the favorite of the next to the oldest granddaughter; red is the favorite of the youngest one and yellow the other one.”

The friend stared. The friend's brow wrinkled.

The parson said, “You don't have any grandchildren, do you?”

The Art of Communication

The email that appeared on the screen had a familiar look to it. Could it be? Well, look here; it is. Old Russell was making contact. Let's see, the last time we were in communication was... Okay, it was right after Lynn and I married. So that makes it eight-and-a-half years.

I remember that last communication. He said he was going to come through the area and thought we might get together to catch up on old times. I gave him my address. I gave him my phone number. He told me he was in a new business venture. Hmmm. I'm thinking back on it now. It was something about selling some kind of vitamin supplement. He asked me if I'd be interested in hearing about it; this venture held the possibility of untold riches. I told him how very grateful I was he'd think of me. But, I said, I wasn't cut out to be a salesperson, that I knew absolutely nothing about vitamin supplements. The conversation ended shortly after that.

You know, now that I look back on it he never came through the area. Eight-and-a-half years. And there's this new email on my screen. I clicked the proper place and the email opened. He bid me greetings. He told me he couldn't believe it had been so long since we'd been in touch. He brought me up-to-date on his side of things. He's gotten a doctorate. He's teaching in a small college. He's really doing well. He says he's coming through the area soon. He wants to know if I would be interested in getting together to catch up on old times.

I'm typing in my answer now. I'm telling him that, of course, I'd be interested in getting together when he comes to the area. I suggest he call or email and let me know the specifics of when and where. I give him my phone number because it's not the same it was eight-and-a-half years ago. I hit the reply button. My email host informs me the message has been sent.

Oops. I should have reminded him of my age. I should have included in a gentle hint that because of my age he might want to make sure he comes through the area in the next decade. Otherwise, I might not be here. I might be in the home; or I might be in a place that has no phone number. But I do hope he calls. I'm dying to know what new venture he wants to interest me in now.

Now, I'm sitting here watching that “message sent” on my screen. I admit I was a bit put off that he waited eight-and-a-half years to contact me again. It was really inconsiderate. It was really taking our friendship for granted. Eight-and-a-half years of non-communication, does that qualify as friendship or should it be relegated to the realm of acquaintance? It's really kind of impudent of him to restrict our contact to once a decade. Gracious, you never really know about people, do you?

I'm turning off the computer now. And my better self is whispering in my ear. I hate it when he shows up. He's telling me I had my friend's email address and I had his phone number these eight-and-a-half years. He's whispering that I send out dozens of emails a day. He's telling me to quit blaming my friend for my lack of communication.

Cheaper Lilies

The service had gone well, really well. A couple of visitors had been in the worship. Even better, a goodly number of the members were in attendance. And, as far as the parson could determine no one had fallen asleep during the sermon.

Now the parson was enjoying a meal at a local eatery before heading home. To his surprise, his best friend entered the establishment. The parson got his attention and motioned him over. After some greetings the parson was told his friend had been preaching at a church up the interstate and took a chance on catching the parson on his way home.

“I ran into one of your members at a convenience store,” said his friend. “He told me he thought you'd come here, so I took a chance.”

His friend settled himself into the booth. They caught up on families, friends, the shortcomings of bishops, who was angling to be elected to what and who was going to be going to what new appointment, all the while the parson finished his meal and his friend devoured a small tossed salad.

Meal completed, the parson and his friend headed out. The parson answered his friend's question as to how much longer he was going to serve as an active pastor. In turn, he asked his friend how things were going at his appointment.

“I thought things were going well,” said his friend.

“Oh,” the parson responded, “there's a problem?”

“It's not a problem,” said his friend. “But every once in a while something happens when you just want to scream, 'Does anybody know what this is all about?'”

“Spill it,” said the parson.

“We were meeting last Thursday about the Easter services. One of the items was the Easter Lilies. One of our more prominent members insisted that we needed to rethink our Easter Lily purchases. He suggested we could save a lot of money if we'd just purchase plastic lilies. They could be used over and over, he said.”

The parson looked directly at his friend for a moment. His lips began to curl.

“Go ahead, spit it out,” said the friend. “What smart remark are you about to make?”

“No smart remark,” said the parson. “But two things did cross my mind. The first is, he's right. They would be cheaper. The second is how wise the bishop was when he sent me here and you there.”

I Changed My Mind Again

Being the retired parson that I am, I made a decision not long ago. The decision was I was not going to do any more weddings unless they were for members of the church I currently serve. I haven’t. Let’s just say I’ve lived long enough to become as cantankerous and stubborn as a wedding consultant I now avoid.

Ring! Ring!

“Parson, it’s Lydia.”

The mind struggled for clarification. It was one of those times when you instinctively know you should recognize the voice and name, but there’s a barrier to recognition.

“Lydia,” she repeated, “The Church of the Struggling Sinners.”

The inflection in her voice tipped it off on the first syllable of the word “church.”

“Lydia, Lydia Charles, oh my goodness, what a surprise. Tell me what you’re doing these days.”

Lydia was in the second grade almost twenty years ago when the parson left her congregation to serve in another parish. She quickly fed him information about her family, the church, her life both in school and after graduation.

“Parson,” she finally said, “do you remember when you left I told you I’d call when I was getting married so you could perform the ceremony?”

The parson remembered. He pictured the scene in his mind. It was right after she’d given him a card with a crying kitten on the front and the words, “I’m going to miss you.” The card still held an honored place on the parson’s desk.

“I do, Lydia. I do.” The parson immediately steeled himself for what was coming next. He screwed up his resolve to stand by his decision.

“I was wondering if you could do it the end of August?”

“Are you serious, Lydia? You don’t have some other pastor in all these years who you’d want to do this.”

“I’ve had a lot of pastors, but I want you to do my wedding.”

The parson began his skillful dodging. “Well, Lydia, I’m really busy about that time. I’m not sure I’d be able to squeeze it in.”

“Parson, we’re going to provide you with a house on the beach at Saint Simons.”

The parson quickly whispered to the figure sitting on his shoulder, “Get thee behind me.”

“I really am busy then, Lydia.”

“Hold on a minute, Parson. Let me ask my mother something.”

The parson waited.

“Okay, Parson, here’s the deal. You tell us when you can spend a week on Saint Simons and we’ll change the wedding to the Saturday of that week.”

FYI – This is the last post for a few days. If you need me I’ll be on Saint Simons Island.

When It Was Hot

There was no thermometer in sight. It was not needed. Some things, in their extreme, can be measured without instrument. Such was the case on this day.

The morning broke with no hint of the oppression that was to come. Any hint of the heaviness of air later to be experienced was swept away by the gentle breeze that sang prelude to the sunrise. That sunrise was majestic, a translucent orange, immersing the dawn in its glow.

They ignored the magnificence of the opening day, seemingly unaware of reports of the warmth that was to come. There were deeds to be done, adventures to be experienced, life to be celebrated. Every day was good, free, filled with promise, and no amount of atmospheric nadir could mar the promise of what was to be.

The first indicant of what was to come whispered its way through the forest where they began to explore at ten that morning. The stream meandering under the wooded canopy belied the climbing mercury. Yet, had they realized, such was the determination of the trio intent upon their mission, it would not have hindered them. Beads of perspiration dotted foreheads and cascaded down bare chests. On the explorers moved with determination toward their goal.

Noonday brought a halt in the journey. Brown paper bags were brought out and opened, their contents removed to allow the bag itself to become tablecloth on the moss covered rock. Three sandwiches, two kosher pickles wrapped individually in aluminum foil, one boiled egg likewise wrapped, eight Oreo cookies, and one canteen of water comprised the combined feast.

Flies and gnats kept free arms circling about perspiring bodies as the food was consumed, half sandwiches being swapped as each sampled the preparations of another’s mother. Meal completed, the bags wadded, stuffed into pockets, and the trek resumed. Sweat poured with every step taken.

Around one in the afternoon the destination was reached. The pond covered three to four acres, formed by a natural obstruction to the stream’s course. Three young bodies plunged into the cool waters; three muscular bodies executed the Austrian crawl through the waters in imitation of Tarzan knifing through a jungle river. Laughter echoed along the bank of the far side when they pulled themselves out, huffing with labored breath. Some moments of recovery were spent on a rock which refused to be comfortable. The sun now beat down like it had yesterday and the day before.

So hot was that sun their bodies quickly dried and torsos began to heat and life became miserable in the open out from under the shade of the trees. They plunged back into the wet making their way back to their shoes in a lingering dog paddle, attempting to shun the sun’s blistering heat. A snake swam across their path slowing their progress even more in an attempt to avoid the intruders.

On shore again they agreed to turn toward home. Retracing their steps toward their beginning as the forest sheltered them from the sun but not from the heat. It felt more intense now with the comparison of the cooling pond. Leaving the forest they headed up the hot, sticky, asphalt road and, then, separating entered their houses, adventure over, seeking relief with the hallway ceiling fan.

Mail retrieved from the box the parson walked back up the drive thru the ninety-seven degree heat and into my air-conditioned abode having remembered a day when it was really hot.

Lunch With A Friend

It was hot, Georgia July hot. The browning grass crunched beneath the feet, the red clay cracked like parched lips on a shipwrecked sailor. It was hot, Georgia hot. The birds did not chirp but took refuge in shaded trees. Cows pushed against each other to claim small spots of shade in virtually treeless pastures.

The parson and Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, wandered the back roads taking the scenic route from one appointment to the next. Just past the Peaceful Valley Community Church of the Redeemed, the parson approached the wooden bridge spanning Possum Run Creek. He noticed a small plastic box sitting on the rail of the bridge and pulled the car off the road. He opened the back door and Charlie Brown bounded out. He sat and observed to determine the parson’s direction, then followed when the parson, after picking up the box, turned toward the path that led down the embankment beside the stream.

At the bottom of the bank the parson followed the path among the hardwoods. His body shivered unexpectedly when he stepped from stifling sun into the cool of the forest.  Charlie Brown jumped into the creek and began lapping the water. Persnickety dog, thought the parson, you’ve got a water bowl in the car, but you prefer drink the organic stuff. The parson continued walking knowing it was impossible to separate himself from Charlie Brown for more than a few minutes.

A hundred yards further the parson paused and spoke, “Catching any?”

The man sitting on the bank of the stream turned and, seeing the parson, smiled. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. A three or four day growth of whiskers embraced his face in a salt and pepper pattern. Crow’s feet accentuated his eyes. Despite the heat he wore a long sleeved denim shirt, whose dark blue color only showed itself under his arms and other places where the sun did not bleach.

“Naw, Parson,” said the man, “ain’t much biting today. Too hot, I guess. I’ll come back in the late afternoon. Sit a spell. Where’s Charlie?”

“He’ll be along, I’m sure,” said the parson. “I’m surprised to see you.” The parson held up the plastic box. “You left this on the bridge.”

He looked toward a large back pack leaning against a tree. “Gracious, I guess I did. Getting old, I guess.”

The parson handed him the box. “Hold my line a minute,” said the man. He took the box over to the pack and secured the two together. “Thanks,” he said, taking the limb with the string, hook and cork tied to it from the parson. “Hey, you had lunch yet?”

“No, not yet,” the parson replied.

“I’d love to,” said the parson.

The man again returned to the pack. He unzipped a side pocket and withdrew a box of soda crackers, Vienna sausage, and several fast food packets of mustard. Reaching into the pack again he brought out a bandana and spread it on the ground. The lunch entrees were placed on it.

Charlie Brown wandered up to where they sat and sniffed at the table cloth. “Sit,” said the parson. Charlie Brown sat.

He divided the sausage into three equal portions. For the parson and himself he carefully sliced a sausage in half long ways, placed both half flat side down on a cracker and spread a line of mustard in a zigzag pattern from the small corner he’d cut in the packet. For Charlie Brown he cut the sausage the same way and placed it on the cracker but dispensed with the mustard.

“Want to bless it, Parson?”

The parson asked God to bless the meal. Following they ate without too many words, as he occasionally handed Charlie Brown a bite. ‘

After the meal, he shook out the bandana and placed it back in the pack along with the unused crackers. The Vienna sausage can he put into a plastic grocery bag and started to tie it to the pack shoulder straps.

“I can take that,” said the parson.

“Much appreciate it,” he replied. He extended his hand, “Thanks for stopping by, Parson,” he said. “I appreciate it, but I know you weren’t passing by here without being on the way to someplace.”

“I do have a little errand,” said the parson.

“Well, you be on your way. I’m going to wait until later and catch a couple.”

“Are you going to hang around this area long?” the parson asked.

“Actually, I think I’ll head up into the mountains. It’s a lot cooler up there. I’ll pan a little gold. If it’s as good as last year I’ll have enough to carry me through the winter. I even put a little in savings this year.”

“I guess you don’t know when you’ll get back.”

“No, I don’t. Tell you what, I’ll leave you a message at your church.”

After farewells were spoken, the parson and Charlie Brown headed back to the car and their appointed destination.  Along the way, the parson’s memory projected upon his conscious a day when he felt called into the ministry. He had been sitting in a pew listening to a sermon preached by the father of the man with whom he’d just shared a meal.

More Than Names On A Card

Herbert Johnson, a pastor well respected among the elders, picked the parson up mid-morning at the local pet care facility. The parson had dropped off Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, to visit his favorite vet while the parson spoke at a gathering some miles up the road. Fifteen minutes west of the pickup, they pulled into the parking lot at Frank Paulding’s church. Herbert and Frank were to serve on a panel following the parson’s address.

Herb and the parson hopped out to greet Frank who’d come out as they drove up. After greetings they all got into Frank’s minivan and headed down the highway. The trio exchanged the normal pleasantries as they drove along, inquiring of families and mutual friends. But twenty further into the hour-and-a-half trip each became quiet as the parson, sitting in the middle seat, studied his notes. Frank drove along, his index finger tapping on the steering wheel in time to the music on the CD. Herb read a book.

 After a bit, Herb closed his book and reached into his shirt pocket. He extracted a small stack of 3x5 cards. He read from the top card, transferred it to the bottom of the pile, placed the cards back in his pocket, and looked out the window for a few minutes.

Frank announced an impending pit stop. The parson put his notes back in his briefcase. They entered the convenience store amid one of Frank’s “preacher” jokes the punch line of which arrived at the drink dispensers. Filled cups in hand, they returned to the vehicle and resumed the journey. The parson rested his head against the seat and absent-mindedly passed the time. Frank changed from the CD to the radio. He hit the button for WUTC – Chattanooga just in time for the start of the start of Cleveland Carlson’s eclectic collection of music on the Morning Music show.

The third song on the day’s playlist was John Prine’s “Spanish Pipedream.” Herb turned with a questioning look and Frank tried to keep his eyes on the road when the parson on the chorus harmonized with Prine, if it is possible to harmonize with John Prine.

Blow up your TV
Throw away your paper
Go to the country
Build you a home
Plant a little garden
Eat a lot of peaches
Try and find Jesus
On your own

As soon as the parson and Prine completed their duet, Frank and Herb make appropriate condescending remarks, some in unison, about the parson’s future as a musical performer.

After the inappropriate applause, the trio settled down, listening to Carlson’s other selections of the day. Again, Frank’s fingers tapped out the rhythm; the parson looked over his notes; Herb removed his cards from his shirt pocket, studied the top one; moved it to the bottom; replaced the cards in his pocket, and then looked out the window for several minutes. Thirty miles further he repeated the process.

At the gathering, the parson gave his address on “A Hundred Faces of Jesus We See Every Day” and sat back in the audience to hear Frank and Herb engage in a discussion with the audience. After what seemed to be a fairly successful day, they headed home.

They discussed the good reception they had experienced, the audience’s reactions, the refreshments, and then the talk turned to shared experiences over the years. As they continued toward home, Herb periodically pulled the cards from his pocket and repeated the process.

When they arrived at Frank’s church, Herb asked if he could use the facilities. They all went inside the church and while Herb headed to the appropriate room, Frank pulled the parson into his study.

“Parson, what’s with Herb and the note cards?”

The parson explained that Herb made a covenant to pray for ten people in his congregation every day. He wrote their name on a card and made some notes about things going on in their lives. And as the day progressed he would pull out a card, examine the card, and then spend a few moments praying specifically about things in the person’s life.

“Does he let the people know he’s praying for them?”

“I don’t think he makes a big deal of it, Frank. In fact, I don’t think he tells them at all.”

“I don’t see the point, then.”

“Oh, Frank, I don’t think he does it just for the names on the card. He also does it for himself.”