Questing Parson

Political Observations

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

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

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

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

“Have you eaten today?” the parson asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Romney.” said Watson.

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

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

“You can?”

“I can.”

“Tell me.”

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

An Interesting Stranger

It was one of those days, cold but not heavy jacket cold, rainy but just a slowly, dripping mist. The parson and his faithful canine companion were on a morning walk. The breeze blew. No, the wind blew peppering the back of the parson's neck with the wet cold of the morning. He pulled the hood of his jacket up over the baseball hat. Charlie Brown paused on his walk to take inventory with his nose of other canines who may have passed that way. Inventory complete, he reclaimed the area as his own and the two proceeded.

Charlie Brown stopped just as he was about to turn a corner. His tail wagged slowly. The parson stepped up beside him. There, about twenty yards away, stood another dog on a leash held by a bearded man in an aged poncho. The man was leaning against a fence eating a piece of what appeared to be beef jerky. Both Charlie Brown and the dog now strained against their leash seeking to greet each other.

“Morning,” said the man as the parson drew closer. “Fine looking dog there.”

“Thanks,” said the parson. “Same to you.”

Charlie Brown and the man's dog were now wagging their tails in unison and glad to see each other.

“What's your dog's name?” asked the man.

“Charlie Brown,” the parson said.

“Good name,” the man replied. “May I?” He held out a pack of beef jerky and pointed it toward the dogs.

“No problem,” the parson replied. “What's your dog's name?”

“I call him Guide Dog.” The man tossed a piece of jerky to both Charlie Brown and Guide Dog.

“Guide Dog?”

“Yep, Guide Dog. I know it's kinda a funny name. But he's my guide.”

“How's that?” the parson asked.

“It's like this,” the man replied. “I'm just an old wanderer, as you can see. I once had this old preacher tell me I needed some direction in my life. Well, the next morning after he'd said that I woke up beside the embers of my fire from the night before and there said this old dog. So, I decided to let him give me direction. So, I let him guide me along the way. That's how he got his name. He guides me.”

“You just go where the dog goes.”

“Well, pretty much. I mean, I don't let him go places where he shouldn't go, but other than that if he wants to take a left at the intersection we take a left.” He pulled the jerky out of the pouch on his belt again, extracted a piece for himself and held the packet out to the parson. “Want some?”

“No, thanks,” the parson said. “How long have you had Guide Dog?”

“We've been road buddies for about three years now.”

Guide Dog had made his way to the parson's side. He knelt down and began to pet him. Charlie Brown came to stand between the parson and the visiting canine, allowing the parson to continue petting but making sure Guide Dog understood who belonged to whom.

The man spoke, “You're the parson, aren't you?”

The parson stood, puzzled. “Yes, that's what folks call me. How'd you know?”

“Well, I asked the clerk at that store over there,” he pointed over his shoulder, “where I could find a motel that would welcome Guide Dog. He said he didn't know but you would. He told me you'd be walking Charlie Brown down this way. So me and Guide Dog came looking for you.”

The parson asked, “What's your name?”

“Henry,” said the man stretching his hand out to shake.

“You're needing a place to stay?”

“I am,” said the man. “Oh, wait a minute. I'm sorry. We're not asking for a handout. I'm sorry. No, I just need to know if there's a hotel that won't mind if Guide Dog stays in the room. We need to get in out of this rain, My iPhone says it's going to rain for two more days. And, truth is, I need a good hot shower myself.”

“The La Quinta will let the dog stay,” said the parson. “Are you sure there's no way I can assist you.”

“Parson,” the man said, “look, I've got plenty of money. I've got some investments and they should keep me and Guide Dog well fed and healthy for as long as we want. Look, Parson, we just are outdoor creatures. We like wandering this way. But every once in a while we take a break and act like civilized folks.”

The parson told him where the La Quinta was located.

“How about a meal later?” the parson asked.

“Sounds like a plan,” said Henry, “but only if it's my treat.”

The parson and Henry agreed on lunch the following day. As they walked away, the parson said to Charlie Brown, “There's a story there, Charlie Brown.”

The Sunday Morning Shakedown

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know something, Parson?” asked Florence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, that seems like a deal to me.”

“Okay, Florence. You staying for church?”

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

“Good-bye, Florence.”

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

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

Why She Keeps Coming Back

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you need?” the parson asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” said the parson.

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

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

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

How Do You Know

The parson was taking advantage of Mother's Day. The evening activities at the church had been canceled as everyone was planning to be at “Mom's.” He headed to nearby outlet mall, where there was an establishment which had dozens of decadent flavors of cholesterol laden ice cream. He carried his Kindle with him.

Sitting at a small table near the window the parson was feasting on the double dip ice cream in the sugar cone with an obvious relish while reading his Kindle edition of Adam Goodheart's 1861, The Civil War Awakening. It was a glorious afternoon. It was until George Vanderhoff Clegborne, III entered.

“Well, Parson,” called out George, “what a surprise to find a preacher of the gospel at the mall on a Sunday afternoon. My goodness is the day sacred no more?”

“Hello, George,” said the parson with less than enthusiasm. The parson was in no mood for his escape from the pastorate, if only for a few moments, to be interrupted by the likes of George.

“Parson,” said George in a voice that intoned an overstated seriousness, “I hear you're stirring up trouble about the county opening a place for women to live.”

“I'm talking about an emergency shelter for battered women with children to stay, George,” said the parson. “We need one desperately.”

“Seems to me that's a waste of time, Parson. Obviously, these women wouldn't be in the shape they are in if they'd simply taken care of themselves from the get go. I mean, the county is supposed to pay for the bad decisions of others?”

“Yeah, George,” said the parson, putting his Kindle down and licking the dripping of the ice cream from the edges of his cone. “That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“Well, obviously, you don't understand the dynamics at work here, Parson. These women could best be served if we made it clear to them that there's going to be no help from the government.”

“You're sure about that?” asked the parson.

“I sure as hell am,” said George.

“You know, George,” said the parson, “I remember a story once about a little boy who was sitting at the table eating lunch with his mother. The table was in one of those bay widow type eating areas off the kitchen. So the birds were flitting about the feeder outside the window and the mother began telling the boy all about the life of the birds, what they liked, what they didn't like, where they got their food, what they did and did not eat, and on and on.

Finally, the boy, when his mother paused to take a breath, said, “How do you know? Were you a bird once?”

Giving Sherman A Ride

At exactly that point where afternoon ends and evening begins the parson began his trek across North Georgia. He steered the hybrid along the winding secondary highways that no doubt had begun as Indian hunting paths through the mountains. About fifteen miles east of the Amicolala Falls, the highest east of the Mississippi River, he saw him.

He was walking westward along the highway. The parson came upon him from the back as he was walking along the left side of the highway facing the oncoming traffic. His attire first caught attention. It was almost like a Civil War officers frock coat, if but a little shorter. Dark green in color, the coat flapped at the bottom in rhythm with the walker cadence. Just as the parson drew near, he turned and in a half-hearted gesture held up his hand in the traditional hitchhiker's thumb up pose. The parson thought to himself: Not this time. I don't have time.

The parson looked at the man's face as he passed him by. Fifty yards down the road the parson slowed his car. Did he look like him, really? The parson stopped. He looked in the rear view mirror, but the momentum of the car had carried him out of sight. He stopped on the shoulder. He thought.

No one the parson's age, whose great grandmother, as a child, had seen her farm burned during what she called the War of Northern Aggression, would fail to recognize the likeness of William Tecumseh Sherman. The parson realized he's just passed him. He contemplated what he thought he'd just seen for a moment. The parson, then, made a U-turn.

Approaching the hitchhiker, the parson slowed again. He squinted. Sure enough, the man looked like Sherman returned, frock coat and all. Pulling alongside the man, the parson asked, “Where you headed.”

“A. J.'s” said the man.

“A. J.'s?” the parson repeated. “How far is it?”

“Don't rightly know. Them folks back there said it was up this highway a piece. They said I might be able to get a ride to Chattanooga there.”

“Hop in,” said the parson. “I'll take you.”

The likeness of Sherman seated himself in the passenger seat, buckled himself in, and patted his frock coat pocket. “This here's my water jug,” he said. “I don't carry no weapons.” He then pulled a plastic bottle complete with straw from the pocket. “Want a sip?”

“Thanks, but I'm fine.”

“So, I don't remember a store along this road called A. J.'s.”

“Ain't no store,” he said. “It's a town.”

The parson thought a moment. “Ah, Elijah. You want to get to Elijah.”

“That's what I said, 'A. J.”

“You live around here?” asked the parson.

“I'm from Texas.”

“How'd you get into the mountains?”

“I walked.”

“You walked from where.”

“Some place called Gainesville.”

The parson used to live in Gainesville. He knew all the possible routes. “How long have you been walking?”

“Don't know. Left the Salvation Army there this morning.”

The parson did some calculations. The man must have been walking for a minimum of nine hours.

“What got you to the Salvation Army?”

“Just stopped there on my journey.” He looked toward the parson. “Hey, yesterday this lady let me rake some leaves. I got money. I got nine dollars. I can help you with the gas.”

The parson looked back at him carefully. He was. He was the spitting image of Sherman as he appeared in those Civil War pictures.

“Where's your journey going?” the parson asked.

“Don't know. When I got out of jail in Texas two years ago I decided to take a journey until I figured out what to do with myself.”

There wasn't any conversation between the two for a while. That didn't mean there was no conversation. Sherman talked to himself. Lots of curves on this road. Pause a few minutes. My feet are hot. Pause a few more minutes. This ride will help a bit.

The two approached a convenience store.

“I got nine dollars. If you want to stop I'll but you a cup of coffee.”

“You want to stop for something?” asked the parson.

“Nope. I'm happy riding around these mountain roads. Just wanted you to know I can buy you that coffee.”

“I'm fine,” said the parson. “Tell me your name.”

“Terry,” he said. “My name is Terry.”

The parson breathed a sigh of relief. If he'd said Bill, or William, it would have been too much.

“Why do you want to get to Elijah?” asked the parson.

“Somebody told me I could catch the bus there to get to Chattanooga. You know I can buy my ticked. I've got nine dollars.”

“Terry, I'm not sure the bus runs through Elijah.”

There was silence for a long while as the car twisted and turned through the mountain roads.

“You know where the seventy-five road is?”

“You mean Interstate Seventy-five?”

“Oh, no, it's interstate. That's bad. Can't walk on the interstate. They'll put you in jail.”

It got quiet again. It was quiet a long time. Finally the parson pulled his cellphone out and called a church member. “You know where the closest bus station is for someone to catch a bus to Chattanooga?”

“I'll call you back,” said the member. And he did shortly. He gave the parson the street address of where to catch the bus in a town twenty miles north of where the parson lived. The parson thanked him, pulled over to the shoulder of the road and programmed his Garmin to take him there. The parson pulled out and informed Terry of their destination.

It got quiet again, quiet as regards conversation. But Terry mumbled. Catch the bus. Long pause. My feet are hot. Pause. Legs sore. Pause. Maybe get there tomorrow.

The parson broke in. “Terry, why are you going to Chattanooga?”

“Well, my brother lives there. I think he lives there. I haven't talked to him since I was ten. But that's where we used to live. He could still live there. I've got this nine dollars to help out.”

“Don't worry about it, Terry.”

They rode on in silence. Eventually the Garmin announced, “Arriving at destination.” The parson pulled into the parking area.

Terry got out of the car and pointed toward a truck stop next door. “Look, I've got nine dollars. I could buy you something to eat.”

The parson smiled. He held out his hand and said, “Tell you what, Terry, if you'll keep that nine dollars for yourself, I'll give you this twenty.”

Terry scratched his head. He looked at the parson. “That's a good deal, ain't it.”

“It is a good deal, Terry. You should take it.”

Terry reached for the bill. He stepped back from the car, walked in front and waved to the parson. As he passed near the parson's side he was mumbling. “I've got twenty-nine dollars.”

The parson pulled out and headed home, back in the direction he'd come. As he did he said to himself, “If my great-grandmother knew I'd just driven Sherman's look-alike back through the Atlanta campaign she'd kill me.”

Charlie Brown's Benefactor

The parson was running late. He rushed in the back door of the fellowship hall, wound his way among the tables on his way toward the kitchen, followed by Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion.

She was sitting at the table adjacent to the kitchen door, just a few feet from the spot where the soup, cornbread, desserts, and other edibles would soon be laid out. She was a regular at Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen.

“Hello, Florence,” the parson greeted. “I haven't seen you for a few weeks.”

“Well, Parson, I could tell you some stories, stories about having to buy a new set of front tires for my van, about how desperately I need some assistance in purchasing a camping stove. And on top of that ...”

The parson held up his hand. “Florence, you're going have to tell me your tales of woe in a few minutes. Right now I've got to help the folks back here in the kitchen.” The parson walked through the door. Charlie Brown did not follow. He headed toward Florence knowing she'd pet him as long as he wanted.

The parson busied himself in the kitchen, stirring, chopping, serving up portions for the youth deliveries to the home bound. When it came time to put the soup on the serving tables in the fellowship hall he sat down to talk with Florence again.

“So, Parson,” she said. “I'm thinking about moving onto a half acre of land over near Ben Talbart's farm. I could get a good camper for a few hundred dollars. Then you guys might be able to share with me some of your cooking pots and pans and things, and I could live there. It would cut down on my expenses considerably. Did I tell you I had to buy two tires?”

“You told me,” the parson responded.

“Okay, well, look they have this real nice long sleeve pull over shirt over at the Dollar General store. So, I told them I didn't have any money but to put it aside and I'd be back tonight because I was sure you guys would want to help me out.”

“How much?”

“Six dollars.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Oh, and, well, Parson, I'm slap out of gas for my van. If you guys could maybe get me a few gallons that would be a big help.”

“I'll think about it,” said the parson.

He returned to his chores, and, in the midst of them, he took time to partake of some soup himself and spend some time with the youth pursuing Facebook pages.

When the parson was in the kitchen washing some pots and pans, one of the youth came in and whispered in his ear. Finishing his chores the parson returned to the fellowship hall. Florence was waiting.

“So, you going to be able to help me?”

“Let's see, Florence. You need gas and you need six dollars for the shirt. So which one do you want?”

“Well, I want them both, Parson.”

“You know we don't feed Charlie Brown from the table.”

“I know that?”

“So, Florence, did Charlie Brown send out for that dozen sausage paddies or did someone feed him?”

“Okay, I fed him. And it was eighteen. Look, that dog is big. He needs a lot of nourishment. I didn't want to throw them away even if they were out-of-date.”

“He gets plenty of nourishment, Florence. He sure doesn't need eighteen sausage paddies. And I don't need to be gotten up at all hours of the night to walk Charlie Brown.”

“You ain't going to buy me any gas, are you?”

“No, Florence, I'm not. Here's six dollars for the shirt.”

“Thanks,” said Florence. She stood to leave and tucked the bills into the back pocket of her jeans. As she moved toward the door she paused to pet Charlie Brown once more. “Sorry, Charlie Brown, the only one who really loves you has to go home now.”

 

Open For Breakfast

It wasn't raining. It was, however, damp. The rain had falled the night before and clouds now obscured the sun's drying effort. It wasn't cold. It was, however, chilly. The parson wondered if he'd miscalculated in wearing only the sweater. Dawn had broken a few hours before. It was, however, still morning.

The church looked lonely in the morning damp. The parson pulled into the parking lot determined to get an early start on the day. A pickup camper was parked near the side yard. The parson noted the Ohio tags as he eased into his parking place. Exiting the car he opened the back passenger door to let Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, out; he pulled his cellphone from his pocket to answer a call. Talking to a pastor from a nearby church about a meeting in the afternoon he entered his study through its outside door.

The parson was in the room no more than half a minute when there was a timid knock on the door. He simaltaneously pulled the door open as he said goodbye to his friend. A man in his forties with a three day growth of beard on his face stood looking in.

“Ah, sir,” said the man, “we didn't mean no harm. We just got so tired we pulled in to sleep. We'll be on our way right now. There's no need to call the police. We apologize.”

The parson looked over the man's shoulder. A Sheriff's Deputy car was pulling into the parking lot. The parson looked down at the cellphone in his hand.

“Oh, no, no,” he said. “I didn't call the sheriff. It's okay for you to sleep here. Hold on just a minute.”

The parson stepped out of the door and walked past the man to his car. Charlie Brown followed him. The parson opened the trunk to the car and retrieved a package from it. He then handed the deputy the package.

“Thanks, Parson,” the deputy said. “We appreciate it.”

“No problem, Roger,” said the parson. “Give the Sheriff my regards.”

The deputy drove away. The parson turned back toward the study door and his visitor.

“Sorry about that,” said the man as Charlie Brown stepped forward sniffing to determine his denomination. “When we saw you get out of the car and then make a phone call and then saw the police car we just thought you'd called them.”

“Any reason you're worried about the police?” the parson asked.

“Ah, well, not really,” the man said. “I mean we ain't done nothing wrong, but we stopped at a church up north a piece and they called the police and threatened to charge us with trespassing.”

“You're welcome to stop here,” said the parson. He looked over the man's shoulder to the pickup camper. Two faces were peering through the window, a woman and a young girl. On impules the parson asked, “You had anything to eat lately?”

The man seemed to hesitate the said, “Well, we had a burger for lunch yesterday. We'll be okay.”

“Where are you headed?” the parson asked.

“Houston,” the man replied. “I got a cousin there who said I could get a job with his company.”

“That your wife and child?” the parson asked nodding toward the camper.

“Well, we ain't actually married, but we been living together for bout ten years.”

“How old is the girl?”

“She's four.”

“Get your wife and come in. We'll whip up something for breakfast.”

“That's not necessary, sir,” said the man.

“Actually, you have no idea how necessary it is,” said the parson. “Bring them in. It's got to be a little chilly in that camper.”

The parson turned and headed to the church fellowship hall. Peering into the frig he found some sausage and eggs and in the cabinets some pancake batter. He went to work. At the first sizzle of the sausage Charlie Brown sat himself down at the door in anticipation.

The man and woman came in. The parson offered the two some coffee and the young girl some orange juice. “Take a seat,” said the parson. “This will only take a few minutes.”

The parson was flipping the pancakes when the little girl asked, “Can I pet your dog?”

“You sure can,” said the parson. In a few minutes he heard the child say to her father, “I think he likes me.” The parson would never divulge Charlie Brown liked anybody who would pet him.

It was an hour-and-a-half later when the family left with full bellies, a Quik Trip gift card in their pocket and a map with directions to a church in Louisana that would let them sleep in their parking lot.

A little while later the parson and Charlie Brown prepared to exit the church theselves. The cellphone rang. It was the parson's best friend.

“Hello, Gary,” said the parson. He listened and then replied. “I'm doing really good, Gary, really good. I'm just now leaving the church. Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen was open for breakfast today.”

Hit Of The Family Night Supper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passing the Compassion Along

“Hello, Hello, you guys here?” shouted Florence as she entered the outside door of the Fellowship Hall.

The serving at Soup Supper Monday wouldn’t start for another hour. But that only meant Florence had arrived at her usual time.

“That sure does smell good,” she called out as she usually did. “I can’t wait; I’m powerfully hungry today.”

The parson was attending the large kettles on the stove while the rest of the volunteers had run up the street for their weekly Weight Watchers Weigh-in. Thinking of them he glanced over at the cherry cobbler one of them had brought. That was a sign they thought they’d met their goal. The accomplishment was always rewarded with desert on the theory they had seven days to remedy the damage.

After adding a little garlic powder to the ingredients and adjusting the heat, the parson stepped into the dining area to greet Florence.

“So, how are things, Florence?” he asked.

“Pretty good since I got out of jail, Parson. Tell you what, that stint was really a blessing. Do you realize they had me locked up during the hottest part of the year. Just think, the county paid for me to avoid the heat in air conditioned comfort. I tell you, the Lord is good.”

“The Lord is good,” said the parson. “Glad you’re in good spirits.”

“I am in good spirits. And I want to thank you again for that twenty. It was just enough to get my vehicle running again. But, I’ve got a feeling the belt will be going soon. So I’m going to have to find some way to make a little money or maybe somebody could, next week, see clear to assist me with that.”

“Well, I hope you find someone to do that,” said the parson.

“I do, too,” said Florence. “Maybe you’ll ask the Lord to speak to the heart of the one he chooses to assist me.

“Maybe he will,” Florence, “but maybe you should pray you find some gainful means of employment and don’t have to depend on the Lord’s prying open the pocket of poor Parsons.”

“Oh, goodness gracious, Parson, did you think I was talking about you. I wasn’t talking about you. I’m just talking about the Lord speaking to somebody’s heart. I couldn’t know who the Lord chooses.”

The parson smiled and headed back into the kitchen. As he passed through the door he heard her voice, “Come here, Charlie Brown; I know you love me.”

The parson knew Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, would now spend the better part of the next hour sitting next to Florence to get petted.

The evening went as it usually did. All but one of the women returned from the weigh-in filled with joy and anticipating the cherry cobbler. The other could best be described as pouting, a condition the parson chose not to inquire about. People came and went. Two members of the youth group gathered up the takeout dinners which they delivered weekly to the homebound members of the community, placed them in carry boxes and headed out on their appointed rounds.

About thirty minutes before the evening ended, Florence stuck her head in the door of the kitchen. “Hey, can you guys spare about four of those takeouts?”

“Why do you want takeouts?” asked one of the women.

“Well, it was awfully good,” she said. “And I know three people who’d like to have something to eat tonight.”

“But you said you wanted four,” the woman pointed out.

“I do; I sure do,” said Florence. “I thought tonight’s was so good I might enjoy another helping tomorrow night.”

The woman dipped the soup and placed it in one of the carryout bags with some cornbread, some cherry cobbler and some potato salad. She repeated the procedure three more times and after placing them in one of the boxes took them to Florence.

“Thank you so much,” said Florence. “I know those hungry folks will appreciate it.”

The volunteer returned to the kitchen and announced, “I guess Florence has gotten supper for every night this week.”

Not long after Florence left, the parson headed toward the town to pick up some office supplies. He was passing over the bridge that spanned the river under the main highway when he saw Florence’s van off to the side. Then he saw Florence carefully picking her way down the embankment, box in hand, to deliver some soup to the residents of the tent community under the bridge.