The river was smooth, so smooth the parson would not have
been aware of the current had not the canoe drifted in a slow but steady pace
downstream. The parson worked his line back and forth to drop the fly near the
shoreline. His fishing partner, Sid Meredith, did the same. The partner
accompanied his casts with barely audible expletives when the cast brought no
results. The parson smiled, knowing the time of the day was wrong to get any
real action. The purpose, for the parson, was the quiet time on the river.
After a few hours on the river the parson reeled in his
line, took out his oar and began to paddle the craft toward a spot where the
bank was but a few inches above the waterline and bordered a low flat field
freshly turned in preparation for planting. It was a familiar spot. The
circular stones with the charred remains in the center gave evidence of
previous visits. The parson stepped from the canoe and was followed by Sid. After
pulling the craft onto land, the parson retrieved a cooler and set it down
beside the log of a fallen tree.
Opening the cooler the parson removed two plastic containers
of trail mix and two twelve ounce bottles of George Killian’s Irish Red whose
glass was beaded with the cold from being buried in the ice. He handed one of
each to Sid then settled himself on the ground.
“What are you going to do if someone comes by and sees us
drinking this?” asked Sid.
“Well, I’m not going to offer them one, that’s for sure,”
said the parson. “I only brought four. Sit down and relax, Sid.”
Sid settled himself on the ground opposite the parson, and
began to nibble on the trail mix and wash it down with the cold beverage.
“What’s happening at your church these days?” the parson
asked.
Sid had recently become the pastor of a suburban church. It
certainly wasn’t a prestigious pulpit but was a solid congregation committed to
missions and accepting of all kinds of pastors.
“We’re doing pretty good, I guess,” said Sid. “I’ve talked
the council into adopting my Gather Them In Program. We’re going to implement
it in September, right after school starts. I’m hoping the program really
catches on.”
The parson sipped the brew a moment while searching his
memory. Finally, he said, “Sid, isn’t that what you did at Church of the
Village Off the Beaten Path?”
“It is. Remember I developed the program at Really Small
Country Church and Campground before I went there.” The parson nodded and Sid
seemed pleased the parson remembered.
After downing another handful of mix and draining the
bottle, the parson began to gather up the remains and place them back in the
cooler. He looked around to police the area, took Sid’s remains from him and
placed them also in the cooler. After returning the cooler to the canoe, he
turned and stared at Sid.
“Sid, down at Really Small Country Church and Campground did
your program gather anyone in?”
“Actually, it didn’t, Parson,” said Sid. “But you have to
remember the program was only developed the last year I was there so it didn’t
get a good implementation.”
“What about Church of the Village Off the Beaten Path?”
“Well, that’s a long story. You know that it’s one thing for
a church to vote for a program but it’s quite another for them to fully buy
into it so that there’s a confidence of accomplishment.”
“No one was gathered in?”
“Well, no.”
“And you’re trying the program at the new church?”
“I am.”
The parson motioned for Sid to step into the canoe, and,
after he did, he pushed the craft back into the river, hopped in and settled
down to drift further down the river. Fifteen minutes later as he flipped his
line toward a small eddy, he said to Sid: “Did I ever tell you the story of
Leroy and Larry?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sid.
The parson felt a tug on the line. He paused, getting ready,
so far there’d been no bites today. After the initial tug nothing more
happened. He pulled the line in again and tried once more. His cast missed. The
canoe had drifted beyond range of the spot.
“Leroy and Larry decided to go into business, Sid. They
decided there would be a big demand for watermelons in the big city. So they
made a pact with a local farmer. They bought watermelons from him for a dollar
each. Every morning they loaded those watermelons into the bed of their pickup
and drove to the big city where they parked on a corner and waited their
customers. Every day they sold out in a couple of hours, charging their
customers a dollar per watermelon.
“After doing this for two weeks Leroy and Larry totaled up
their sales. They realized they weren’t making any money. They pondered and
pondered. Finally, Larry informed Leroy he’d figured it out. Leroy asked him
what the solution was. ‘Simple,’ said Larry, ‘all we need to do is get a bigger
truck.’”
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