Questing Parson

Blessed; Accepted

The parson was surprised when the invitation came, really surprised.

He'd known Greg for many years. Greg lived in the really, really big city, far, far to the north. The parson lived in the country, way down South. Who would have thought that circumstances, family, and several twists of fate would not only create an avenue of acquaintance but a bonding of two totally different persons.

The parson was, well if you've been reading this site for more than a day, you know who the parson is. Greg was an – Hmmm! What's the appropriate word for a male old maid? Greg was that. He was one of those people who are creatures of habit. He arose at the same time each day. He hopped on the train to go to work. He labored faithfully and joyfully for his employer,. He hopped on the train to return home. He cooked dinner. On specific nights he watched specific programs on the television. On other specific nights he read books from the New York Times best seller list.

Greg was one of those fellows who was a friend to all. The lady at the dry cleaners always was delighted when he, on the specific day allotted for this duty, picked up and dropped off his shirts and suits. Greg was a confidant to the server at the diner he visited on Tuesday and Thursday of each week, often giving her advice on how to handle delicate issues that impacted her living. On Wednesday mornings, on the way to catch the train, the lady at the counter already had the doughnut filled with the lemon flavored cream inside, along with the 20 ounce cup of decaf coffee, ready as he entered the door. Greg would inquire about each of her kids by name.

On Sunday, every Sunday, Greg headed for church, the Roman Catholic Church. Greg was Roman Catholic born, and Roman Catholic bred, and when Greg died Greg was Roman Catholic dead. It was Greg's death that prompted the invitation that brought the parson to the really, really big city.

Greg, for some strange, unknown, reason made a specific request in his will. Now Greg and the parson, being separated by a decade in age, being separated by geography with Greg abiding in the really, really big city, and the parson a product and resident of the rural area many, many hundreds of miles south of Greg's residence, had been limited in their contact with each other. Yet, over the years circumstances seemed to bump them up against one another.

In his will, Greg, this stalwart Roman Catholic, this officer in the Knights of Columbus, this good friend but separated in so many ways from the parson, had asked that the parson deliver his eulogy. Greg wanted the country parson to stand in the pulpit of the massive church where Greg worshiped all his life and speak as a Protestant pastor to all Greg's Roman Catholic friends.

Picture, if you will, the parson standing in the pulpit of the really big Catholic church. Picture the congregation wondering why Greg would pick this peculiar Protestant parson to speak. Feel the parson's nervousness being where he was on the occasion that brought him there. Picture that and then realize this story is not about Greg, but Greg's priest.

The parson completed his eulogy. The parson spoke a prayer. The parson stepped from the pulpit and made his way to a pew. He sat down, and then the parson realized what he'd just done. He had placed himself in the exact spot to ensure he would be the first to go forward to receive the Eucharist. The parson chastised himself for not thinking this through. He was not Roman Catholic. He could not receive the Eucharist.

When the appointed time came, the parson rose. He moved forward toward the altar. And, knowing the proper etiquette, he folded his hands across his chest and said, “Bless me, Father.”

The priest hesitated. He seemed to study the parson. Then, instead of speaking the expected words, he said, “You are blessed, my brother.” And with that he placed the wafer upon the parson's tongue.

The parson did not remember much of the remainder of that service. He was totally distracted by the tears of joy running down his cheeks.

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.

Rewards of Ministry

It was a few minutes before the worship began. The parson was coordinating a matter with the usher when they walked in. The parson did a double-take. The woman looked familiar. There was something about the smile.

“Hello, Parson,” she said.

The voice brought the recognition. On the parson’s desk was an old card. The front showed a cat wiping tears from its eye. The caption below read, “I’m going to miss you.” The card had been given to the parson by an eight-year-old girl when he left her church for another. The presentation of the card was the last time he’d seen her.  And now, fifteen years later, she was standing before him.

“Jennifer,” the parson exclaimed. They mutually moved toward each other and hugged.

Stepping back, she said, “This is Robby Neiman. I wanted him to hear you preach.”

“Well, I hope you haven’t set him up to be disappointed,” said the parson.

“I hope so, too, Parson,” she said, hugging him again. And then she added, “After church we need to talk to you about setting up some pre-marital counseling. I told him you’re still my pastor.”

“When are you getting married?”

“Sometime in the fall; it depends on when you can do the ceremony.”

The parson walked to the chancel feeling old, feeling joyful, feeing vindicated.

Contentment

Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, jumped from the car the second the parson opened the rear door. As soon as the car had turned onto the graveled driveway, Charlie Brown had jumped up from his reclined position on the backseat. That hyper sensitive nose told him where they were. The door was barely closed before Charlie Brown was fifty yards away, ears flapping, legs stretching and propelling his lean body at an impressive speed toward the pond. Three yards from the water leaped and momentarily appeared to be flying before the water’s displacement leaped into the air to cascade down behind his momentum.

He turned and paddled back to the shore, leaped upward, shook himself to send a spray all about, and then walked to a smooth grassy spot where he immediately plopped down, rolled over on his back and began to gyrate upon the ground to either dry or scratch his back or both. Righting himself, he looked toward the parson, assured himself his companion was still there, and bounded across the field toward the woods at the far side.

The parson reached into his car and retrieved his Kindle. Heading toward a fallen tree, he settled himself down with his back against it and began reading. Perhaps ten minutes had passed when he sensed a movement behind him. He turned to see Charlie Brown twenty yards away, his nose in the air testing the breeze. “Here I am,” said the parson. Charlie Brown turned and scampered toward the other far side of the field and disappeared again into the woods.

In about another ten minutes the parson heard a low bark. He looked up to see Charlie Brown sitting beside the rear door of the car. The parson powered off the Kindle and raised his aging body through the aches of age into a standing position. Charlie Brown gave another low bark. The parson ambled over and opened the door to the car. Charlie Brown jumped in, assumed his usual sitting position and turned to look toward the parson.

Opening the driver’s door the parson placed old bones behind the wheel, cranked the car, put it into gear and headed back down the graveled driveway of the farm. Reaching the road he turned toward home. Charlie Brown dropped onto his stomach with a grunt. The parson headed home while wishing his own sense of contentment could be so easily met.

Why Do You Do It?

The parson sat at the end of the dining table around which six seminary students and he were feasting.  On the table were platters. One held cobs of corn. The ears had been placed in a mesh bag early that morning and immersed in a cold mountain stream where the fibers and shucks sucked up the water. Then about an hour before they gathered around the table one of the students had gone to the stream, retrieved the corn, wrapped each ear in aluminum foil after including a generous spoonful of butter, carefully sealing the ends, and threw the ears into a camp fire burning outside. After a proper time they’d been taken out and stacked on the platter without being unwrapped or shucked.  A second platter was stacked with baked potatoes. A third was stacked just as high with grilled steaks. In a fourth platter was a dish composed of soy especially prepared for the vegetarian student. The table was balanced by two large pitchers of iced tea on each end.

The parson took in the fellowship with the same gusto as he did the meal. These young people fascinated him. Only two were going into the pastoral ministry. Two others planned to teach religion. One was becoming a social worker. And one had yet to decide what course she would take. All were to graduate in a couple of weeks; this was the celebratory culmination of years of effort.

Each bite of the delicious meal was accompanied with laughter and delight. Funny stories of funny professors abounded. On more than one occasion a student got choked in the process of learning swallowing corn kernels and laughing simultaneously does not always mix. As tummies filled the pace of the interchanged slowed; the conversation became more serious; the possibilities of the future were addressed; the seminary experience was seeking a context.

Walter, one of the students planning on teaching, during a pause in the conversation, leaned back in his chair and said, “Why do you keep doing it, Parson?”

“Keep doing what, Walter?”

“Why do you keep going about the pastoral work, the preaching, and the crap that goes with serving a church year after year after year?”

Everyone around the table seemed to pause. The room grew seriously silent. The parson sensed he should not trivialize the moment.

“Tell you what, Walter, let’s clear the table and clean the dishes. While we’re doing that I’ll ponder your question.”

The seriousness around the table lifted. Sharon announced she had some coffee and cake for dessert. The table was cleared and an assembly line was formed at the counter for the washing of the dishes while Sharon prepared the coffee and cake. When the cleanup was completed everyone again sat about the table and dug into Sharon’s cake. The parson was pleased she’d prepared two pots, one regular and one decaf.

“Oh, my goodness, Sharon, you soaked this in rum. This is wonderful.”

Everyone agreed. Sharon’s accent on the meal was just the thing to bring the evening back to laughter and frivolity. It continued for another hour or so.

Night had long ago closed the door to the sky when everyone gathered on the porch of the cabin. There, too, was an addition to the evening’s enjoyment. A large washtub was filled with beer and ale that had been smothered under ice for several hours.

“What’ll you have, Parson?” asked Jackie. “We’ve got …”

The parson interrupted, “Just surprise me, Jackie.”

She handed him a Sam Adams Summer Ale with flecks of ice still clinging to the bottle. The parson settled back in the rocking chair and, as everyone else got settled down, listened to the crickets singing.

“So, Parson,” said Walter. “Why do you do it?”

Chairs were pulled closer until the group was in a circle around the washtub. Jackie and Frank were sitting on the floor, their backs against the cabin’s wall. The parson smiled when he noticed they were holding hands.

“Okay, Parson, we’re all ears. Preach to us,” said Art.

“Why do I do it?” the parson began.

Continued tomorrow …

The Fruits of Their Labor

Only a half dozen acres were left of the once large farm. Over the years the descendants of the one who actually farmed had sold off the land, acre by acre, tract by tract, as financial needs or lavish yearnings demanded. The parson now walked the remaining parcel checking on the status of things for the owner.

Overgrown and empty were the adjectives. Shrubs had not been trimmed in years; paint was flaking on once proud dwellings. Only a whisper of more prosperous and joyous times remained.

Survey completed the parson was headed to his car when he saw it. Reaching from beneath the overgrown hedge, the uniquely shaped leaf stretched toward the sun in a desperate attempt to survive in a hostile world. How had it gotten here? Was it a shoot from a root of a once proud but now gone tree? Whatever its origin, it reminded the parson of other times and other places.

 He was a wee boy when he first became aware of the massive fig tree growing behind his grandfather’s workshop. Originally, it was one tree, but when he became aware of its presence in the yard it was two, one having grown from the roots of the first. The parson’s grandfather treasured that tree. Mostly, he treasured the fruits that came from that tree. 

It became the parson’s assigned task to keep the fruits the tree bore safe from the fig destroying jay birds. His was the task of sitting on the stool beside the open window that looked out into the tangles limbs of that massive tree/shrub for hours. Across his young lap rested the .22 rifle. At the approach of any winged villain intent on attacking one of those purple orbs of sweetness he slowly raised his rifle, took aim, and fired.

The jay birds and other winged creatures were unable to wreck their havoc upon those fruits as long as the parson was on duty. Actually, he could never recall having actually shot a bird, but that rifle made a lot of noise.

When his Mama died all the cousins headed for house to divvy up the objects of memory. The parson, however, went straight to the back yard, to a spot behind his grandfather’s old workshop. The tree, now ancient, stood proud with its limbs spread over a whole corner of the yard. The parson’s horticulturist wife dug in the ground and cut a root from the tangle.

She nursed that root in some secret concoction in the parson’s workshop for months. And on the appointed day they planted it. The first year it seemed but a twig, always in danger of being trampled. In two years it was chest high. In four years it began bushing out, conquering territory. And the fifth year of its transplant there was produced three purple fruits. The parson picked one, one day, and sat down on the front porch of their cabin. In a slow motion born of anticipation he moved the fruit toward his mouth. He bit. The sweet juices trickled down his chin creating a joyful memory of childhood days enjoying the fruits of his protection. On a following day the other two figs became the highlight of breakfast.

The parson’s wife died a few months later. When later he married Ms. Parson, he sold the cabin, and with it the fig tree. His was not the ability to nurse it through another transplant. 

The weather is changing now. As the parson drove home he began to wonder if that tree still thrives. He wondered if those folks who bought the house would allow him one slow, dripping, sweet bite.

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When Stress Rode Along

The parson rolled out of bed early. The morning ritual was completed, he stepped forward to meet the day. Stress was waiting in the living room and invited himself to accompany the parson through the day.

First stop was at the hospital. A parishioner was having some common, but serious, surgery the next day, and the parson wanted to spend a few minutes with her to calm some of her fears. There was laughter in the hospital room, but Stress kept whispering into the parson’s ear that he needed to leave because there was so much to do.

The parson eventually gave in to the pleadings of Stress had headed toward the lobby and exit. Another parishioner greeted him in the front waiting room. Asking the parson if he had a minute resulted in the two sitting in a quiet corner while she talked to the parson about an impending divorce. She was hurt. She was afraid. Stress whispered it was time to go. The parson resisted and listened. Stress poked the parson on the shoulder and motioned for him to hurry. The parson intently focused on the church member. Eventually the parson and the member agreed to meet with her spouse present to discuss the difficulties, but not before the struggle with his better self and Stress had churned his innards.

The parson headed down the highway to take care of some financial problems of a family member who’d recently been placed in a nursing home. “Damn,” the parson said as he ran the stop sign without thinking. Stress told him it was okay because he really didn’t have time to handle this problem today.

At the nursing home Stress encouraged the parson to get angry when it was discovered the family member had not been taken to rehab as had been promised. The parson was beginning to give in to the encouragement when the family member began to pitch a hissy fit over the parson not consulting him before paying his outstanding bills and Stress suggested the parson get worked over that also. 

As quickly as possible the parson slipped out of the facility to head home. Charlie Brown was waiting in the car and wagged his tail in anticipation of the usual walk when the parson returned to the car. The parson informed Charlie Brown he could wait. Stress chuckled in the background.

The parson pointed the car home and the dozen pressing things that waited. Stress whispered in his ear the whole day was ruined. The parson concentrated on the eighty mile trip home. He concentrated until he saw the sign. It announced the historical site / state park was open. The parson turned in. He headed toward the Visitor’s Center, went inside and picked up a map of the trails. Returning to the car, the parson reached in, retrieved, and then held up Charlie Brown’s leash. His faithful canine companion rose in an excited manner, tail wagging.

Stress informed the parson there was not time for this. The parson hooked the leash to Charlie Brown’s collar and the two headed into the woods with the Visitor’s Hiking Guide in hand. Two hours later, the parson was well acquainted with the details of the Civil War battle and feeling good from the exercise as well. Charlie Brown was prancing at the end of the leash.

Charlie Brown jumped into the back seat. The parson quickly closed the door and let himself into the driver’s seat. Stress walked around the car to the passenger seat. The parson hit the lock button. Stress tapped on the window.

The parson turned the key, backed out of the parking space, put the car into drive and waved good-bye to Stress.

Choosing Joy

 The parson stood in the gallery studying the paintings handing on the wall. The collection was from children and youth of the nearby schools.

“We’ll, hello, Parson,” said a familiar voice. It came from a younger pastor who served as an associate in a nearby church.

“Hello, Philip,” the parson replied. “How are things with you?”

“Great, Parson, just great. Gwen and I have taken your advice and are getting season tickets to the performing arts center.”

“You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure,” said the parson. “Glad to see you’re making plans to take Gwen out more often.”

“Thanks for that advice, Parson. And I guess Gwen would thank you more than I. -- So what brings you to the Art Center?”

“I just stopped by to admire some of the art work,” the parson said. “The local kids have this showing every year. It’s usually pretty good. Look over here.” The parson led Philip to a painting of a horse grazing in a meadow. “Look at   this. This girl has put some art into the collection every time for the last three years. Look at this! Isn’t she great? You know her first piece was good, but she’s just developing more and more every year. Look how she has the light coming through the morning mist hanging over the pasture. She’s amazing! And she’s only in the eleventh grade.”

“Philip stepped back and examined the work more intently. “It is good Parson.”

The two walked down the wall of art slowly. The parson pointed out several of the pieces whose artist had display in the collection in previous years. After a while all the collection had been taken in and admired. The pair walked outside.

“Tell me something, Parson,” said Philip. “I read your blog the other day when you were going off on the people who don’t do their part in the work. I think you called it a rant. And a rant it was. Now here you are today taking in the art of kids. How do you go from being so upset one day to attending this art collection today?”

The parson held his car key out and hit the button to unlock his door, the sound of which awakened Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, who bounded up in anticipation of the parson’s arrival.

“I’m here today, Philip,” said the parson, “because even though I felt the need to let out some hostility, I don’t choose to dwell there. It’s places like this, full of color and promise of the future, places of joy like this, that I choose to dwell.”

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