Questing Parson

Some Soup; Some Talk

The youth in our church deliver a meal each Monday evening to the homebound in our church and community. We call it Soup Supper Monday, and often the meal is a bit more than soup.

One night, the kids entered a Senior Citizen community and by mistake delivered the meal to a man and woman not on their list. They just made a mistake. And when the man pointed this out to them, someone in the group said, “Maybe so, but God doesn’t make mistakes so this meal must be for you.”

For months the kids delivered the meal. And as time progressed they realized the man was in bad health. They brought the meals and sat and talked to the man.

The phone rang at the church recently. It was the woman. She called to let us know her husband had died. She said we didn’t need to bring the meals to them any longer. But she wanted the kids to know how much their visits had meant to her husband.

The young people ignored her. They carry the meal to her every Monday, and while she eats they sit and talk with her.

The Pretty Purple Dress

Elise Parrot came bounding into the fellowship hall propelled by the inexhaustible unseen energy source that was unique to her. She skidded to a stop in front of the parson’s seat, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged like a long lost daughter.

“Guess what,” she said.

“What?” responded the parson.

“No really, you have to guess.”

“Okay, tomorrow it’s going to rain orange jello.”

“You’re silly, Parson. No, my brother is staying with my aunt for two weeks. I don’t have to put up with all his stuff. It’s wonderful.”

The parson smiled, “Who’s the luckiest, you or your brother.”

She stepped back and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m the lucky one and you know it. Jackson is hyper and you know that, too.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “And tonight you’re really, really, really lucky.”

Elise’s mother and grown sister walked in about that time. Her mother warned her not to be bothering the parson. The parson assured her she was not.

“How come I’m really, really, really lucky?” she asked.

“Go in the kitchen and ask Ms. Parson.”

Elise disappeared with the speed of a raccoon with Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, fast on his heel. In a few minutes she came back out.

“Ms. Parson told me to sit beside you and be quiet.”

It was amazing. She sat beside the parson and was quiet.

Ms. Parson came into the room with a package in her hand. She placed it on the table beside Elise and the parson. “This is for you,” said Ms. Parson. “There’s a lady in the church who especially likes you. She’s kind of a secret friend. She wanted me to give this to you.” Elise looked puzzled. Her face was a question. “Go on,” said Ms. Parson, “open the package.

Elise looked over toward her mother and received a nod of approval. She tore into the package. The intake of breath was audible as she extracted three new dresses. (It was obvious the dresses did not come from the outlet mall and that the anonymous donor had taken care to select just the right dress to match Elise’s personality and enhance her hidden beauty.) She spread the dresses individually beside each other on the table and stood transfixed.

After a couple of minutes of pregnant silence, Ms. Parson suggested. “Why don’t you take the dresses to the bathroom  and get your sister to help you try them on to make sure they fit.”

“Can I?” asked Elise.

Ms. Parson hugged her. “Sure you can.”

Elise and her big sister scurried to the bathroom. The parson surveyed the room and beheld with joy the adult smiles.

Elise and her sister called to Ms. Parson. She disappeared and in a few minutes she returned with Elise, her sister, three dresses and the news that everything fit perfectly.

Everyone gathered about the tables and began to consume the soup that was the meal for the evening and which the teenagers were delivering to the home bound in the community. As the evening wore on people wandered to different parts of the church and Elise, Ms. Parson and the parson were left in the fellowship hall.

Quietly, Elise moved to the table behind the parson and Ms. Parson. She spread her three dresses out and stood in contemplation.

“Do you like them?” asked Ms. Parson.

“Oh, yes, I do,” she said. “Will you tell whoever gave me these how much I like them?”

“I’ll tell her, Elise.”

“Ms. Parson,” she said in a quiet voice. “You know what’s the best thing about these dresses?”

“What’s that, Elise?”

“Well, you know that pretty purple dress I wear to church? Don’t tell my Mom I told you, but that’s really the only dress I have.” She paused and then said, “Do you know my friend, Betsy?”

“I don’t think I know her,” said Ms. Parson.

“Well, anyway, Betsy doesn’t even have one dress. And the best thing about me getting these three dresses is that I can give Betsy my pretty purple one.”

Overhearing, the parson whispered, “A little child shall lead us.”

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The Taste of the Meal

The parson was changing the sign in front of the church to announce the “Soup Supper Monday” which was a regular ministry of the church. A soup supper or other was prepared and anyone who was hungry could eat. The folks in the church had become accustomed to seeing the “haves” sitting down to soup and cornbread with the “have nots.” And while they were eating the youth were delivering a meal to the homebound in the community. In fact, more meals were now going out than were being served at the church.

Having completed his task, he was walking back to his study when a car pulled into the parking lot. The driver’s window came down. “Hello, Parson, how’s things.”

“Well, hello, Jeff,” said the parson, “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“My shift at the mill was changed, so I don’t get to stop by like I used to.”

“I guess the good news is you’ve still got a job, Jeff.”

“That’s true, Parson; that’s true. Look, I saw you putting that Soup Supper thing on the sign and decided to stop. It’s none of my business, Parson. I don’t go to your church. But I was up at the shopping center a week or so ago and I heard some of those people that hang out there talking. They were telling every deadbeat in town about you guys having a free supper. You’re going to get run over by these people if the word keeps spreading.”

“Tell you the truth, Jeff, we’d love to be run over. The more the better.”

“Parson, these folks are on drugs; I’m pretty sure a couple of the women are prostitutes; I mean they are so far gone they go through the dumpsters to find food.”

The parson smiled, “The theory we’re working on, Jeff, is if they eat enough good food here after a while the garbage won’t taste so good.”

Those Other Kind of People

The parson sat at the far end of the fellowship hall, comparing iPhone Apps with two of the youth. The shared appreciation of the power of the cell phones had come months before when in the middle of the sermon the cell phones of every youth in the church began to vibrate. Those who were able sneakily checked their phones to read a text: “This is the Parson. Pay attention the next part of the sermon. It's really good.”

Now on this Soup Supper Monday, where the parson’s church provided a free meal to anyone who wanted it - rich or poor, he and the young people exchanged thoughts on technology and they educated the parson on how to utilize all the marvels of his device, a steady parade of people entered. 

For a long while only members of the church came to partake of the gastronomic delight the parson’s own hands had prepared. About thirty minutes after the doors had opened the team who delivered meals to the homebound and sick arrived and packed up meals in takeout containers and departed. Shortly after the parson felt two arms wrap around his neck from behind. 

“Hello, Peggy,” said the parson, without turning. He knew it was Peggy, not from her hug but from the smell of her unwashed body. 

“Hi, Peggy,” said the assembled young people in one form of another, as the parson turned his chair around.

“You look pretty,” said the parson, peering beneath the matted hair that probably had not been combed or brushed in a week into the innate beauty that was obviously there. 

“Thank you, Parson,” she said. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“I got an A on that report you helped me with. My teacher was really happy.”

“That makes me happy, too, Peggy,” said the parson. She leaned forward and hugged the parson’s neck. 

“Get something to eat,” said the parson. Peggy turned to do so as the parson called out to her brother already filling his bowl and plate. It was never a guess as to whether Peggy and her brother were hungry. “Hello, Ralph,” the parson greeted.

“Hi, Parson.”

“Have you been fishing lately?” The parson knew Ralph often fished the ponds near his house. He also knew Ralph’s fishing was a necessary supplement to the family’s diet. 

“Yeah,” said Ralph, smiling, walking over to the parson. The youth pulled back a bit, for Ralph exuded the same aroma as his sister. “You know that pond across the highway from us? Well, I caught two catfish yesterday that were this big.” Ralph held up his hands to indicate the size. The parson knew his estimate was probably accurate as Ralph didn’t lie about fishing.

Peggy and Ralph and their mother headed to a table before the artificial fireplace with the gas logs. They sat down and began to consume their meal with the force of an industrial vacuum.  

The parson’s cell phone vibrated. He looked down to see a text from a youth across the table from him. The text read: “What’s wrong with that woman. Even if you are poor you can make your kids take a bath and brush their hair occasionally.”

The parson looked across the table at the mystified youth. He smiled, but before he could answer six more people came bounding in from the cold. Two of them lived on the fringe, dabbling consistently with drugs more often than not inebriated. And yet, those two, at the encouragement of Ms. Parson, had begun to gather others who lived under the bridge on Highway 41 and give them a ride to Soup Supper Monday. 

“Hey, what’s cooking, Parson?” chimed out Denver the leader of the under-the-bridge brigade.

“Soup.” said the parson.

“Okay,” said Denver, “but who made the soup this night?”

“I did,” said the parson.

Denver came over to the parson’s seat, “That’s good,” he whispered. “When that other lady makes the soup she doesn’t put as much meat in it as you do.”

“Eat your soup and be thankful no matter who made it,” said the parson.

“Amen,” proclaimed one of the other under-the-bridge citizens.

The under-the-bridge group were halfway down the line of crock pots with soup, platters of cornbread, brownies and slices of cake, when Peggy called to the parson.

“Bye, Parson.”

The parson looked up to see the two unkempt kids being literally dragged from the room, their bowls of soup and other food sitting half-consumed on the table. Their mother hissed to the parson in a stage whisper, “I can’t believe you let those kind of people in here.”

Defining Homebound

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this the Parson.”

“It is; is this Juanita?”

“Yes, Parson. How are you?”

“I’m just doing really good, Juanita, really good. I hope you are as well.”

“Well, apparently, some people think I’m not doing that good.”

“What do you mean, Juanita?”

“Last night Frances Milford and Geraldine Crawford showed up at my door with these containers filled with soup and cornbread and cobbler. Do you have any idea why the brought me and Henry a dinner?”

“The church delivers meals from the Monday Soup Supper for the poor to everyone who is sick or homebound, Juanita.”

“Well, Henry and I are not homebound?”

“Then I guess you were on the sick list, Juanita.”

“We’re not sick either, Parson.”

“I didn’t think you were, either, Juanita. I’m sure you’d have called me if you were.”

“I would. And that reminds me, for the last few weeks we’ve been getting copies of the bulletin and sermon and some little activity sheet about the scriptures in the mail every week. Do you know anything about that?”

“It’s the same situation, Juanita. The church sends that package out to all the homebound members and those who are sick.”

“If you don’t mind me saying it again, Parson, Henry and I are neither homebound or sick.”

“I’ll take your word for that, Juanita.”

“Why would those people think we’d become homebound or sick?”

“I think they base that on attendance, Juanita.  ....  Juanita? .... Hello, Juanita.”

“We’re not homebound, Parson, and we’re not sick.”

“See you Sunday, Juanita.”

“Good-bye, Parson.”