Questing Parson

Good Intentions, But ....

Ring! Ring!

The parson looked at the screen on the iPhone. His mind quickly weighed the options available to him: 1) let it go to voice mail, 2) let it go to voice mail and then delete the message before listening, 3) let it go to voice mail and listen to the message and then delete it without returning the call, 4) and the least attractive choice was to answer the phone. Realizing the first three options only put off the inevitable conversation he chose number four.

“Hello, Sharon. How are you?”

“I'm fine, Parson. I'm must fine.”

“Well, what prompts the pleasure of your call at this early hour?” asked the parson.

“What prompts my call is that Ed and I have decided we need to do something to make sure you're okay.”

“Thanks for your thoughtfulness, Sharon. I'm as good as I can be under the circumstances.”

“Well, we were talking about those circumstances, Parson. And Ed has said it will be okay for me to come over to your house two or three times a week and straighten up and clean up.”

“That's awfully kind of you, Sharon. But I'm managing on my own. I really do appreciate the offer.”

“Parson, there's no reason for you to send your laundry out. There's no reason why I can't come over there and take care of that.”

“I don't send my laundry out, Sharon. When I was in graduate school I took an advance course in washing machine operation. I also took a course in ironing.”

“Very funny, Parson. Seriously, you need some help. Without Ms. Parson around to take care of things you need some help and we're going to give it.”

“Sharon,” the parson said in a steady and deliberate tone, “no one is going to be trapsing about my house. It might surprise you to know I'm pretty good at picking up after myself.”

“Nevertheless, Parson ….”

“Nevertheless, Sharon, while I appreciate your intention, the very last thing I need now is to have to worry about someone in my house. Thank you for what you want to do, but I'm going to manage on my own.”

“I can't believe you're refusing to let us take care of you.”

“I'm not, Sharon, I'm just rejecting your definition of what I need. I tell you what, if you really want to help why don't you get on the phone and call everybody you can think of. Invite them to come to church this Sunday. It's the first Sunday of the new year and the best thing you could do for me is to fill up every pew this Sunday.”

“Well, I don't know about that, Parson. I'm not sure folks would appreciate me calling and telling them they need to go to church.”

“You know, Sharon, I've got a feeling you'll be able to overcome that reluctance to interfere. I'm getting real excited about seeing all those faces Sunday. You and Ed have a great day. And thanks for calling.”

Grieving

The parson decided to break the bond of depression and create a diversion. Snow was still on the ground but, somehow, a desire for a double dip black cherry ice cream in a sugar cone called to him. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, raised his head from where it rested on his left paw in his bed and watched the parson cross the room. As soon as the parson pulled his jacket on he was up and bounding to the door.

A quick trip brought them to the outlet mall which was surprisingly empty despite the snow having melted. The parson headed to a spot in front of Java Junction. Exiting the car he looked in the back seat and said, “Right back.” Charlie Brown plopped himself down to lay on the seat until the parson's return.

Inside the parson ordered his ice cream, selected a seat, opened his Kindle and prepared for a few minutes of enjoyment.

The cone was virtually consumed when she came to his table. Standing across from him, she said, “You don't know me, Parson,” she said. “I heard about your wife. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” said the parson. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“I envy you in a way,” she said. “I lost my husband three months ago. I'm having a hard time getting over it. I'm sure that because you're a pastor you're so much better able to deal with it.”

Every fiber in the parson's being wanted to scream, “It's not. It's now.” Instead he studied her a few seconds and said, “Sit down a minute. Tell me about your husband.”

Alive

She wanted to talk. Years ago she traveled through a spiritual journey that ended with her kneeling on the floor of the church parlor, on a Sunday when a blizzard had shut down the city and only six folks showed up for worship, to be baptized. Her journey and that snowy day bounded the parson to her and she to him.

Today the parson mostly listened.

A week ago an apparently disgruntled customer walked into her and her husband’s business, pulled out a gun and murdered him. 

“I never knew how much you were hurting when your wife died,” she said.

“I know,” the parson replied quietly. “No one can know until it happens to them.”

“How do you stand it?”

“I don’t.”

“When did you get over it?”

“I haven’t?”

“But, you’re happy with Lynn now.”

“I am. And Lynn’s happy with me, but Lynn still cries for her Gary like I cry for Geri.”

“How can you two make a life for yourself when your heart is empty.”

The parson thought a moment, then replied, “My heart’s not empty. Your heart’s not empty. My heart contains the love for my children and grandchildren. It has the love I have for Lynn. But my heart has this tremendous hole in it. I don’t think anything will patch that hole; it’s the hole caused by Geri’s exit. And your heart is not empty. You have the love for those two precious girls. You’re more aware of the hole now because it’s fresh and raw. Someday, someday you’ll learn to live with it, but it’s not going away.”

“Everybody tells me it’s going to be okay.”

“Everybody has never lost a spouse. It’s not going to be okay. He’s dead. He was senselessly murdered and that’s not okay. Two children will never see their daddy again, and that’s not okay. You are a widow. That’s not okay. You’re sitting here talking to me the way you are because your life has been turned upside down and that is not okay. Your family, your friends, and I cannot make it okay. Jesus cannot make it okay. It will never, never be okay.”

She sat silently, looking out the window. After a moment she got up and walked across the hall to look in on her child playing with an aunt. She came back, sat on the sofa again, with what was almost a huff she pushed herself back into the cushions. She looked at the parson intently.

“Tell me when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

“When you realized you were going to get through it.”

The parson leaned forward; he took her hand, and said, “Sweetheart, I haven’t gotten through it. I never will. But one day I woke up and I looked over to the side of the bed where she used to sleep. Somehow, that morning it hit me that she was dead. She was dead and I was alive. I was alone, but I was alive. It wasn’t my choice, but that’s how it was. That morning I claimed being alive again. And somehow when I came to that realization I quit wallowing in my grief and I claimed it and wrapped my arms and my heart around it. I quit letting my grief weigh me down and made it the impetus for going on with life.”  The parson, leaned closer and whispered, “So, here we are. I’m alive and, when it’s the right time for you, you’ll be alive too.”

“But that will be tomorrow, right?”

The parson smiled at this strong, talented, and now fragile woman. “It may not be tomorrow; it could be a few months.”

Before the smile could completely form on her face, the three-year-old escaped her aunt and bounded into the room to pounce into her Mommy’s lap.

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Whose Grief?

When she’d called the parson the day before, “just to check to see how you’re doing”, the parson sensed something might be amiss. They saw each other infrequently now that the parson lived on the other side of the state, the visits limited to when business brought the parson to the place where she worked. After the call ended something nagged at the parson. Was it the tone in her voice? Was there an edginess in her questions? The parson decided he needed to check on business and headed down the highway.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as he walked in. 

“I’ve got to check on some things with Ed,” the parson replied. “You want to have lunch when we’re through?”

“I can do that,” she said.

The parson headed into Ed’s office where the two of them discussed some matters relating to a non-profit both were involved with. Business completed and some funny stories shared the parson headed toward her office.

“Hungry?” he asked sticking his head into her cubicle.

They walked down the street to a small “old South” style sandwich shop, with an outdoor patio filled with two seat garden tables. Order in hand they headed to a table in the shade of a mimosa tree. The sandwiches were consumed, the tea drunk, and the homemade pickles crunched before the parson found the opportunity to broach the subject.

“Are you still grieving?” he asked.

Her eyes immediately filled. She was the much-doted-over only child of her father who had died a painful death six month earlier. Even after her marriage she and her husband bought a few acres from her father and lived next door. The father had been a delighted grandparent on the birth of her son. He, along with her mother, had become the permanent babysitters. Her husband and the father were tremendous friends. When the father died all had gone into the depths of grief. 

“I think I’m okay now,” she said in a soft voice. “It’s really, really hard. But I know he’s in a better place and he’s no longer in pain. I know that, and I was just about where I could accept it with a little of joy, but then Mama went into the state she’s in now.”

“What’s going on with your Mama?”

“She just is convinced she’s sick. She sits there in the house beside his chair and she just complains that she’s sick. We keep taking her to the doctor, and when we won’t she’ll call 911. They took her gall bladder out two months ago because of the pains she said she had. There was nothing wrong with the gall bladder.”

She paused and took a hesitating breath. A tear started its slow fall down her cheek.

“She wants to die. She just wants to die. I just buried my father and now my mother wants to die. It just goes on and on and on. I thought I was going to be able to handle this; I mean, when we talked before, I, well, I, I started claiming my grief like you said and it gradually got better, but now what am I going to do with Mama. Every time I go over there I get all torn up inside again and it’s back to the way it was right after Daddy died.”

The parson waited as she wiped away the tears. Then she tried to muster up a smile.

“Do you know what’s wrong with me?”

“Maybe,” said the parson.

“Maybe, what?” she asked.

“Maybe you’re trying to take your Mama’s grief for your own. You can’t do that. It’s her grief. You can’t carry it for her. All you can do is help her claim it.”

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A Pause On the Journey

The parson drove up the road, returning home from a a short trip to a nearby town. At a four-way stop, along a rural road, he glanced over to the rural, white-framed, church diagonally across the intersection to his left. The parson stared intently. He realized Sam Rogers car was parked under an oak tree on the far side of the church, The parson knew immediately what was happening.

Slowly the parson pulled his car into the driveway of the church and into the shade of the tree that sheltered the other car. He exited the car and walked toward the cemetery that bordered the church. Rounding a corner he saw Sam sitting on a granite bench amid flowering shrubs. The parson quietly walked up and sat down beside Sam.

In a few moments both noticed a pair of cardinals hopping about on the grass. Every so often one or the other would fly off with an insect in its beak. Other times the insect would be eaten on the spot.

The parson looked up. A red tailed hawk soared above, a dark shadow against the white drifting clouds and Carolina blue sky.

Many minutes later a rabbit hopped out of the brush and began to nibble on a plant the parson could not identify from where he sat.

A semi-truck broke the melodic silence as it pulled away from the four-way stop. It’s reverberations diminishing steadily with distance. 

A dog, too well groomed to be a stray, walked past the church heading on the side of the road, head turned toward the two strangers sharing a bench in the cemetery.

Sam picked up a small dead pine branch that had fallen from the tree whose branches were overhead. With careful deliberation he broke off a small portion and tossed it toward the masonry bird bath five yards to their left. The movement of his arm caught the rabbit’s attention and he quickly hopped back into the undergrowth. 

A while after the sticks had all be tossed Sam got up from the bench and walked a few paces into the cemetery to stand before a headstone. He bowed his head. A moment later he knelt beside the stone. A moment later he rose and walked toward the parson.

“Thanks for taking the time, Parson,” he said. “I really miss her. I really miss her.”

Together the two walked back to their respective cars. Sam went North at the four-way. The parson continued his journey East.

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Caught Dead In the Church

The parson was changing the sign in front of his church. He turned at the sound of a horn honking behind him. Turning he discovered a car had pulled into the parking lot and now was in the space almost directly behind him. The parson held up his hand extending one finger to indicate he’d be with the driver in one minute.

He completed adding the letters to the last word, climbed down from the ladder, and headed toward the car. As he did so, Clarence Sawyer, one of the pastors in the area exited the vehicle and headed toward him. The met halfway and shook hands. 

“Come on in, Clarence,” the parson invited.

“Only for a minute, Parson,” said Clarence. “I’ve got to be at the hospital in a few minutes. But I stopped to ask you about something.”

The parson led Clarence to his study. Clarence declined an offer of refreshment. Each too a seat, the parson in his rocker and Clarence on the sofa.

“So what’s up?” asked the parson.

“I’ve got a funeral tomorrow and I’m really conflicted about how to handle it.”

The parson made no comment. He waited for Clarence to continue.

“The fellow who died is technically a member of the church. But as far as I know he hasn’t been to church since he graduated from high school.”

“I have a few of his friends on the roll here,” the parson commented. 

“The thing is, Parson,” Clarence said leaning forward, “I cannot convince myself he was a Christian. I mean he’s baptized and such, but, like I say, he hasn’t set foot in the church nor done anything of a religious nature that I can determine that would be considered religious.”

The parson now leaned forward, toward Clarence, smiled and said, “Clarence, you’re going to encounter a lot of this during your ministry.”

“I may encounter it, but I really am having trouble accepting it. I mean, here’s this fellow who virtually turned his back on his faith. Now true, he didn’t commit any crimes or beat his wife or anything, but he was not a Christian.”

“This is really upsetting you,” the parson observed.

“What really chaps me, Parson, is that the family is insisting the service be conducted in the church.” Clarence shook his head from side to side. “He wouldn’t come to church when he was alive, but now that he’s dead the family is dragging his dead body back to church.”

The parson smiled some more. “I think you hit the key word there, Clarence.”

“The keyword?”

“Yes, the operative word here is ‘dead.’ The man’s dead Clarence. I doubt he gives little of a hoot as to where the service is conducted. And, just to ease some of your anxiety, I also doubt he gives a hoot what you say or don’t say about him. He’s dead, Clarence.”

“But the family wants the service in the church, Parson.”

“And since you’re willing to acknowledge that the man in dead, Clarence, you should be able to figure out who this service is really for.

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Living Life

“Listen, I will tell you a mystery!” quoted the parson as he stood before the grave. “We will not all die, but we will all be changed. For this perishable body must put on imperishability, and this mortal body must put on immortality. Then the saying that is written will be fulfilled: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’ Where O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sing?’ But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

The parson’s eyes surveyed the mourners as he spoke the words of The Service of Committal. His vision focused on Ginger, the twelve-year-old who wanted someday to be a pastor, sitting between her mother and her aunt, the widow of not quite three days. She stared misty-eyed at the parson, her gaze intense, her brow wrinkled.

“Now may the one who is able to keep you from falling ....” continued the parson, as he pronounced a benediction. Following tradition the parson moved down the rows of seated mourners whispering words of compassion and then stepped away as family and friends now expressed their sympathy. 

The parson spoke to the  gathered, greeting family and friends of the deceased’s family. As he was talking to a local businessman who’d closed his store to attend the funeral, he became aware of a presence just to his side and behind. He turned to see Ginger standing patiently. The parson immediately excused himself to the businessman.

“Hi, Ginger, are you okay?”

“Sort of,” she said, forcing a smile.

“How’s your Aunt Becky?”

“She’s trying to be brave, Parson. But I think she’s really not. Parson, I asked my Mom if you could give me a ride to my house. She said it was okay with her if you didn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind, Ginger. Let me go speak to your Aunt Becky and then we’ll go.”

Ginger was waiting at the parson’s car when he finished speaking to the family. He promised he’d drop by the house later that day. Ginger’s mom told him Ginger would be okay staying at home as her older brother would be there in a very short while.

Ginger was already at the parson’s car when he headed that way. She heard the click of the lock when the parson pressed the unlock button on his key. She opened the passenger door and slid in.

The parson knew Ginger well. Seeking the ride home was prelude to something. He waited. After five minutes or so she spoke.

“He was a good man, Parson.”

“I know, Ginger; he was.”

“He was forty years old.”

The parson said nothing.

“He did lots of things. Did you know he climbed that big mountain in Alaska.”

“Denali?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. It’s suppose to be really, really big.”

“It is really, really big, Ginger.”

“Anyway, he did that when I was a little girl. Did you know he coached my soccer team when I was six?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He did. He used to tell us if we did our best we would win no matter what the score was.”

The parson waited.

“I think he was right, not just about winning at sports but everything.”

“Is he the one who taught you to try so hard?”

Now Ginger said nothing. She looked out the window. In a bit she pointed and said, “Look Jane’s riding her horse.”

The parson followed her point to see one of Ginger’s friends trotting across an open pasture. Ginger continued to stare out the window. The parson turned at a crossroad, the last leg of the journey to Ginger’s house. 

“He was, Parson. He always told me to do my best and to never ever quit. I think next to my Dad he’s is, was, the most important person in the world. And now he’s gone.”

“Have you cried much, Ginger?”

“I don’t have any more tears, Parson. I mean I know I’ll cry some more but this afternoon I’m not crying.”

Ginger turned to look out the window again. She didn’t speak until the parson turned into her driveway.

“Parson, do you remember one time in a sermon you said something about we should all live every day until we die.”

“I think I remember that.”

“You said it; I remember. And my Uncle Bill lived every day of his life. Now I know what you meant when you said that. I'm going to do that, too.”

The parson stopped under the oak tree that shadowed the corner of Ginger’s house. He turned to look at her.

Ginger opened her door. “Thanks, Parson, I’m glad I got you to bring me home. I knew you could explain things to me.”

An Encounter With Death

The parson pulled into one of the “Visitors” parking spaces at the Middle School. A teacher join him on the walk and they exchanged pleasantries as they walked toward the front door. It was about 10:30 in the morning.

Entering the school the parson said his good-byes to the teacher who was heading to an appointment. He turned and entered the school office.

“Hello, Parson,” said the secretary. “I talked to Ginger's mom. Let me show you into one of the counseling rooms, and I'll go get her.”

She directed the parson to a small room with two love seats and an armchair. The pictures on the wall were losing their battle to keep away the feeling of clinical. The parson waited, passing the moments by studying the pictures, brushing a bit of lint off his pants leg, doing whatever he could conjure up to keep his mind off the task at hand.

It wasn't long before the door opened and Ginger was ushered into the room. As soon as she saw the parson her face went pale. “What's wrong, Parson?” she whispered as she edged into the room.

She crossed the small space and sat on the sofa beside him. He brushed a curl from her forehead and said, “It's your Pa-Pa. He's had a heart attack and is in the hospital. I told your mom I'd come and get you. Your daddy is on his way back home.”

Her lower lip began to tremble. Tears silently cascaded down her cheek. “He's dying; isn't he? That's why she sent you to get me.”

“It's very, very serious, sweetheart. Come on, let me take you to the hospital. The office will take care of all your school stuff.”

Together they walked out of the building. She, the so grown up in so many ways, held his hand with a little girl's dependence. The ride to the hospital was made in silence. Once there, the parson again held her hand as they proceeded toward the CCU waiting room.

The parson led Ginger to a seat in the corner. He walked over to the volunteer and asked to use her phone. Dialing the Chaplain's private number, the parson asked his friend to let the staff in CCU know he was back with the granddaughter.

Hours before, shortly after breakfast, the parson had been called by Ginger's mom. He'd rushed to the hospital and together they faced the inevitable truth about her father. Ginger's Pa-Pa was an organ donor; this was the only reason the machines still kept his organs functioning. He would not survive. Ginger's mom and the parson spent time in the hospital chapel. The parson had talked with Ginger's father and promised he'd take care of things until her father could return.

Ginger's mom came into the waiting area. She came over to the parson and hugged him. Ginger sat still on the chair watching them. She did not move. “Is she okay?” Ginger's mom whispered.

“No, not really,” said the parson. “I don't think she wants to hear you tell her what she senses you're going to tell her. So she's avoiding you. I'll go back and see your dad a moment. You spend some time with Ginger.”

“Should I take her back to see him?”

“That's up to you and her.”

“What would you do if she was your daughter?”

“I'd take her back. You've called everyone else to come and tell him bye. Why would you deny her that, if she wants to?”

They hugged again. She broke away and headed over to Ginger.  Before she could settle herself in the seat Ginger wrapped her arms around her and the dam burst freeing the sobs and tears.  The parson left them to their grief.

The parson walked to the concession area. He purchased a canned fruit drink and placed it in his coat pocket; then he purchased two cups of coffee and headed back to the waiting room, walking carefully lest he spill the liquid. Sitting the cups and can a coffee table he took an opposite seat. Ginger's head rested in her mother's lap. She was stroking her daughter's hair gently.

Ginger's mother continued stroking the hair while she updated the parson on the doctor's reports. “Ginger remembers that time we had the organ donation people at the church. She's glad we're doing this. Oh, I forgot to tell you. They have found a kidney match already. So, we're, we're .... Oh, Parson, this is so hard.”

Ginger raised her head. Now she reached up and stroked her Mom's face. And then she rested her head back in her lap. There was quiet in the room. Ginger's mom reached over to get the cup of coffee the parson had brought. She sipped it and made a face that expressed appreciation for the taste and warmth. No one said anything. The parson and Ginger's mother drank their coffee. Their cups had been empty for several minutes when Ginger raised her head.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I'm ready. Can the Parson go with us?”

Her mother nodded. They rose and silently the trio made their way back to see Ginger's Pa-Pa.

A half-hour later the parson and Ginger returned to the waiting room. They settled into their seats. Ginger opened her can even though the parson offered to get another one as this one was no longer cold. She took a sip, sat up straight, and asked, “Is Pa-Pa already dead?”

The parson thought a moment. “I don't really know the answer to that Ginger. His blood is still circulating and oxygen is going in and out of his lungs, but the machines are doing that.”

Ginger interrupted. “They're doing that because they have to keep his kidneys and organs working until it's time to take them to someone else.”

“Right.”

“So, how do we know if he's alive now or not?”

“I don't know, Ginger. But I do know that when they turn the machines off, just like your mom said, Pa-Pa will go to be with Jesus.”

Ginger nodded her head.

The day was spent with the parson alternating his attention between Ginger and her mother. Around dinner time Ginger's dad arrived. Shortly after that other family members gathered. Ginger spent time talking with her cousins. The parson was introduced to family members he'd not met before. Various family members went into the CCU at different times. Other times they rotated to the hospital cafeteria. After everyone had eaten and said gone back to the room each gravitated to a corner of the room where a family conference began. The parson led them in prayer and then slipped out of the group to let them talk. It had only progressed a few minutes when Ginger slipped from among them to sit with the parson.

Two doctors came into the room. They asked Ginger's mom and dad to join them in a family room. She suggested they talk there with all the family. It wasn't long until there was an agreement. Ginger's mom and dad came over to the parson and Ginger.

Ginger's mom knelt down beside her. 'It's time, sweetheart. They're going to turn the machines off now. Do you want to be there when they do?”

Ginger shook her head from side to side. The tears started again, no sobbing, just tears. “Can I stay here with the Parson?”

“Sure you can. Would you like for the parson to take you home? We'll be there is just a little while.”

“Yes.”

Ginger's mom looked to the parson. “Do you mind?”

“I'll see you at the house.”

The parson and Ginger were halfway home before she spoke.

“Parson, I think you're going to have to talk with me sometime. Maybe we can do it after the funeral. I can't figure out why if my Pa-Pa is going to heaven and we're Christians but I'm so sad it hurts. It really hurts.”

“Do you want to talk about it now?

"Not now, Parson. We can talk later. I think I will break if we talk about it now.”

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Redemptive Grief

The early afternoon meeting was over and the parson headed up the highway toward home after a long day. The highway department had the inside lane of the four lane closed  making his progress slow. As he sat waiting for a traffic light to turn green, his gaze focused out the passenger window across the cemetery lined row upon row with grave markers. At the back of the cemetery a lone figure stood, head bowed staring at a headstone. The parson squinted into the sun. A car horn shouted behind him. Startled, the parson noticed the light was now green. He waved an apology at the person behind and started to move forward. Quickly, he reconsidered and turned sharply through the cemetery gate.

Slowly the parson steered his car down the narrow winding drive. About fifty yards from the solitary figure still standing at the grave, he stopped and exited the car. Quietly the parson made his way to a garden bench under a shade tree. He sat down only ten yards from the woman. The parson was familiar with the emotions that had drawn her to this spot. It was one only understood by those who had experienced the death of a spouse.

Her husband of thirty-five years had died a few months before. The children all lived a far enough distance they did not see their mother except weekends. And as they had adjusted to a world without their father the every weekend trips to be with their grieving mother had taken second seat to the demands of children's soccer games, school activities and such.

She turned from the grave. “Oh, my, how long have you been there, Parson?”

“Just a moment. I wondered if you needed a friend.”

She walked over and, as the parson rose, sat on the bench. The parson resumed his seat  beside her.

“How long will this last?” she asked quietly.

“I can't answer that,” the parson said. “I lost my wife almost six years ago. And still sometimes today I'll remember something and start crying.”

“I don't know if I can stand that, Parson. This is so damn hard.”

“It is. It's the hardest thing you will ever go through.”

She reached down and began to pluck petals from a long stem rose in her left hand. She would pluck one, hold it up and release it to the wind, and then she repeated the process. Halfway through the rose's destruction she spoke in a soft voice.

“This is really silly. I brought this rose to lay on his grave. I started to put it there and then I remembered how much he disliked roses.”

Her giggle was choked by her sob. Her head moved to rest on the parson's shoulder.

“What did you miss most about your wife who died?”

The parson immediately remembered. “You know,” said the parson, “I used to come home from a challenging day at the church and would plop myself in my recliner, click on the news and sip a beer. I told her to just give me thirty minutes to watch the news and then she'd have my undivided attention. But eight days out of ten I'd sit in the recliner and just as I got interested in whatever story was on the news she'd start talking. It drove me crazy. But after she died I would have give anything to hear her interrupting my news program.”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “You know that hedge across the front of our yard? That was supposed to be a privacy hedge. I planted it myself, and that's why I planted it,  but I swear he trimmed that hedge back to its two foot height every other week. Grrrr! But the other day I found myself out there trimming it back to where he had it.”  She took a deep breath whose exhale was accompanied by a half-sob. “Grieving isn't for wimps, Parson.”

“Tell me about it,” responded the parson.

“I cry every day, Parson.”

“I know,” said the parson. “And somewhere down the road you'll end your day with the realization you didn't cry. And then you'll cry because you didn't cry.”

“The kids say I should start facing reality. My daughter told me it was time to get rid of his clothes.”

“It will be time to do it when you decide to do it.”

“I don't have to be in a hurry. Do I?”

“No, you don't. I think folks suggest things like that because they want to help you get to some kind of closure. But there is no closure. He's going to be gone for the rest of your life.”

They sat silently for a long time. She removed the remaining petals from the stem.

Finally she spoke. “Can you tell me when it will become bearable?”

“I can. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes.”

“It becomes bearable the day you suddenly realize he's dead and you're alive and the only option open is for you to live.”

She looked at the stem of the plucked rose. With a flick of her hand she sent it flying end over end toward a nearby shrub.

“It is the only option,” she said. She rose from the bench. “Thanks for stopping, Parson.”

The parson walked her to her car. After she'd fastened her seatbelt he told her, “Claiming the option won't stop the grieving, but it will bring some redemption to the grieving.”

The parson headed back to his car. As he made his way back to the gates, weaving among the tombstones, he grieved. At the gate he turned toward home and the life he now lived with Ms. Parson.

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Ministry ~ Listening

Oil change day brought the parson across the state. Old habits were hard to break. Three dealers were closer, but this is where he’d gone for a couple of decades. Besides, the ride down the meandering byways through the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains was therapeutic.

The parson pulled into the service area of the large dealership. No sooner had his door been opened than a familiar voice called, “Morning, parson. How are you?”

It was the assistant service manager. The parson responded, “Hello, Helen, you look nice today. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, parson,” she said.

Without prompting the parson said, “Thirty-two thousand, three hundred forty one.”

Helen wrote the mileage down. “Oil change?” she asked.

“That’s it and whatever else is on the calendar.”

Helen turned with the parson to walk back to her cubicle. As they walked, the parson saw Patti, the service manager off to the side of the service area. She was talking with the dealership’s general manager. The parson waved to them. The manager motioned for him to come over.

Hands were shaken. The parson suggested his new church could be financed if the manager would give up some money. A few laughs were exchanged. Then the manager said, “I’m heading out to a lunch meeting. Why don’t you and Patti talk in my office?”

The parson’s oil change was a little early. But the manager had called him. Patti’s father had passed away. Though the parson had talked with her several times on the phone, the manager encouraged him to come for a visit.

As the parson closed the door to the manager’s office Patti plopped herself on the sofa and began to bawl. The parson rolled the manager’s office chair across the room to face her.

“I miss him so much,” she cried. “We were so close.”

The parson knew Patti was an only child. Her younger brother had died in a tragic accident when he was a pre-school. Patti became in many ways an indulged kid from that day. She never gave the impression of being spoiled, but with her daddy she never lacked for anything he could provide. The parson had marveled at the man’s ability to be lavishing in his affection while keeping his child within limits.

“Tell me about that time when you forgot your lines in the school play,” the parson suggested.

She looked up and a smile slightly curled her lips. “I can’t believe you remember that story.”

Patti began her narrative of her childhood with her daddy. One memory triggered another and soon she was reliving the night he chaperoned the middle school dance where she and he jigger-bugged to the delight of her classmates.

The memories danced through those days up to high school and her father’s booming voice coming from the stands as she dribbled the soccer ball past a less dexterous opponent. And from there she traced her journey that led down the altar when she married Roland.

“Remember that toast your dad gave?” the parson asked.

She did. Once again the stories flowed of her father’s concern, presence and guidance. As her reminiscence flowed until she talked of her life with her husband. The parson remembered the day she’d told him her father was building a home on a lot adjoining the lot on which she was building a future with her husband. As he remembered she began talking of how much her husband and her dad got along with each other. Her words led the parson to remember telling her father how he’d doubted the wisdom of his move but admitting he’d been wrong.

Patti shook her head. “You know I’m going to have a hard time getting over this.”

“I do,” said the parson. “But I’m glad he had some time with his grandson.”

Patti began talking of her dad’s worry when she had so much difficulty with the pregnancy. Then there were stories of her dad’s delight over his grandson.

“Bobby is going to never know how wonderful his grandfather was.”

“Yes he will,” said the parson. “He’s bonded to his grandfather’s daughter.”

“God, I’ve been talking for an hour,” said Patti. “I can’t believe you came over here and all I did was babble on.”

“Actually, I came to get my oil changed.”

“Sure you did,” said Patti. She stood and held out her arms to hug the parson.

A few hours later the parson returned home. A message was on his phone. It was from the dealer’s general manager. “Hey Parson, thanks for coming by. I don’t know what you said to Patti, but she sure seemed to feel better. Thanks for talking to her.”

The parson hit the erase button as he remembered the day and experienced the affirmation that the best ministry is done without words.