Questing Parson

Go Figure

Late in the afternoon the parson pointed his vehicle toward his home. He left the banks of the Mississippi where Granddaughter Number Two had completed at the Blues and BBQ Gymnastics Invitational. There was a smugness about the parson's demeanor. His ten year old granddaughter had finished fourth in overall among a field of predominately fourteen year old competitors. The parson was convinced it was a genetic thing.

Imagine the pleasantness the parson experienced in his psyche. Imagine the feeling that nothing was to detract from his elation as he rode the began the 400 mile trip home. He turned on Prairie Home Companion and listened to Garrison Keillor's tales of Lake Woebegon. Everything was wonderful. The sermon had been written. The computer programming for the multi-media was ready. All that remained was for the parson to get home in time for a good night's sleep.

The cell phone rang. The parson's pianist was calling. She wasn't feeling well. She wasn't going to be able to be at church the next morning. The parson's granddaughter had just exceeded all expectations. She was proving her ability, establishing through her athletic ability she was a descendant of the parson. There was no problem. The parson began to hum the hymns he'd slip into the multi-media program to substitute for the pianist.

Sunday morning the parson arrived at church. When the time came to express at the beginning of worship joys and concerns, the parson modestly slipped in that his granddaughter was the recipient of his genetic gift. The parson was on top of the world. The parson was ready to preach the sermon about “Remember Your Baptism.” The parson was as ready as a granddaughter about to leap up onto the uneven bars.

It was during the first hymn the problem began. The video presentation of the screen, with the words and background music to the hymn suddenly encountered audio challenges. The music would play loudly for a moment and then fade into nothingness. It befell the parson to sing without benefit of accompaniment the words of the song loud enough for the congregants to follow.

During the Prayer of Confession the parson's lapel mike began cutting in and out. One moment his voice was blasting out over the congregation; the next moment it was silent and the parson had to strain to project his voice, which was fine until the mike cut back in to now amplify the parson's almost shouting voice.

At one point, the parson headed back to the media room in the midst of the service to show the young know—it-all's how to correct the situation. The parson's correction lasted for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds.

But the parson stumbled on, like a young gymnasts who just stutter-stepped at the most important transition of the floor routine.

The sermon was delivered as thought it was a normal service. And at this point it was a normal service. But then the last hymn appeared on the screen. The hymn appeared, but the accompanying music did not. And yet, the congregation kept singing.

The parson, following the service, stood a the door to the sanctuary. After he'd greeted everyone who had such comforting things to say about the comedy of errors, he walked back into the sanctuary. A member of the church suddenly reached out and hugged him, tightly.

“This was the most meaningful service I've ever encountered,” she sobbed to the parson.

Go figure.

An Observer's Observations

“I don’t understand how this economy could get in this shape,” he said to the parson.  “One day the nation’s is trucking along on all cylinders and then, boom, the bottom just seems to fall out.”

The parson had fallen into this conversation with Herbert, whom he’d only met a few minutes before. They were sharing lunch on a picnic table which sat in the shade of some hardwoods on the side of the fast food property. The parson savored his salad sprinkled with chunks of citrus fruit. Herbert munched slowly between sentences on the first of four large hamburgers on the table before him, two fully loaded and two plain meat and buns.

“I’ve never heard of so many people losing their houses,” said Herbert. “I don’t know. What do you think? You know I remember my Mama always saying if it sounded too good to be true it probably was. You’d think when folks bought a big fancy house with more bedrooms than there were family members for a price they knew was too small for that kind of house they’d have remembered their mama saying something about things being too good to be true.”

Herbert paused in his analysis of the financial condition of the country to take a long, long suck on the straw standing upright in the thick strawberry milkshake. “Ahhhh!” he exclaimed as he placed the cup back on the table. He reached for the plain hamburger and carefully tore off a quarter of the top piece of the bun. This he then handed to Jake. Jake, obviously grateful and just as obviously hungry, devoured the bread with relish.

“And I tell you another thing; this gas situation is a disaster. Look over there,” he pointed his finger toward the large convenience story / gas center across the drive from the restaurant. Herbert did not quickly finish the statement as he took several hearty bites from his burger and paused to share two more bits of bread and one large portion of meat from the plain burgers with Jake.

As though there had been no pause in the conversation, Herbert then began. “This whole country is a bunch of gasoline junkies. And I’ll tell you something. It’s because we’ve gotten lazy. I mean, we don’t have to be dependent on oil. There’s all kinds of alternative methods of transportation. We could build rapid, high speed rail systems connecting the major cities. We could be developing electric and hybrid and hydrogen vehicles. Did you know out in California they’ve developed a car that will go from zero to sixty in three seconds and is electric. The things got a range of two hundred miles. But no we can’t go that direction. Look at those people pumping that gas. God only knows how many dollars has gone into those tanks while we’ve been sitting here. Excuse me a minute.”

Herbert was excusing himself to pause for some more nourishment. He completed his intake of the burgers as Jake also finished his lunch. Herbert then drained the milkshake cup. He carefully folded his and Jake’s wrappers and stuffed them in the cup. “Here let me take that,” he said to the parson. Herbert rose and carried the refuse to the nearby trash receptacle.

“I could get into wind power, too,” he said coming back. But I really need to get on down the road. It’s really been great talking with you. Thanks for buying me and Jake lunch.”

“Can I give you a lift?” the parson asked.

“Naw, you’ve done enough. I’m grateful for you Christian consideration. God bless you. I and Jake will just amble on at our own place. You know, when you’re not caught up in this rat race,” Herbert said as he pointed to the life around him, “you don’t have to be nowhere at any special time.”

Herbert shook the parson’s hand. “Thanks again; this was special.” He turned and picked up the back pack beside the table. Swing it onto his back he made a clicking noise in his cheek. Jake jumped up, wagged his tail, and followed Herbert as he resumed his walk to wherever the road led.

 

The Best Things

My dear friend Gary DeMore writes of wistful memories of a childhood spent amid the bracing atmosphere of Detroit, Michigan.

Apparently, Gary was kept on a short lease while his older siblings galloped with unfettered freedom. One snowy day found Gary home with his mother, suffering with that interminable affliction of the young – boredom. Even a child, especially an imaginative child, grows bored after repeated viewings of The Lone Ranger, Sky King, or even Gene Autry, back in the saddle again.

 

My friend has not the temperament to remain bored long. A jacket was put on; boots slipped over feet, mittens enveloped hands. Down the back stairs he trod to the accompanying motherly chorus of “Gary stay in the yard.” And, “Gary don’t get into anything.”

Gary didn’t. He went to the shed, removed the snow shovel and started to work. From the center of the yard outward in a square pattern he shoveled the snow. With dogged determination he stayed on path. Gradually, foot by foot, inch by inch, the snow was moved from the yard onto an ever growing bank along the edges. His was definitely a labor of love, a long-lasting love.

 

Finally, the goal was realized. All of the yard’s snow was not embanked along the property lines. The snow shovel was returned to the shed. Restful moments were spent leaning against the shed’s door as the youth eyes surveyed his handiwork. He walked over to one spot and patted the snow with his mitten-covered palm. Every thing was now ready.

 

Returning to the shed he now extracted the garden hose. Quickly, it was attached. The water was turned on, flooding the backyard in the center of the damned up sides. Gary speaks of the joy of sliding across his own personal ice rink. There’s joy in his words as he recalls the skates the family finally got him.

I got Gary’s newsletter and the story of his wintry adventure just a few days after my kids and grandchildren visited. Gary would like my grandkids.

Perhaps they were as bored as Gary on that cold day in Detroit; perhaps they’re as adventuresome as I imagine them to be. Whatever the reason the middle of the afternoon found them slowly one-by-one drifting outside. The minutes were short until the squeals of joy echoed about the yard.

 

They’d gone into my garage and removed some debris. Large cardboard boxes seemed the plunder of choice. Large plastic containers were second in preference. With only these implements my front yard had become a place of thrills as good as any at Six Flags.

We live on a hill, a hill so steep it has been known to make a preacher cuss during lawn mowing. But it’s not too steep for a cardboard seat slide; it’s not too steep for a plastic container tumble. The sounds of their laughter echoing through the neighborhood as they slid and crashed and cried, “Watch this!” is still felt.

 

So, here’s to Gary’s ice skating rink. Here’s to my grandkids hill sliding antics. Here’s to the absence of the things we buy at the stores, and the presence of that which matters. When all is said and done, the best things in life are not things.