Questing Parson

Thank God For A Real Church

The parson and his granddaughter returned from their journey. They'd visited Washington, D. C., Philadelphia and New York.

Years earlier the parson and Ms. Parson sat in their living room and talked of taking Sara, someday, to New York City. July 27th would have been the eighth wedding anniversary of the parson and Ms. Parson. The parson decided to give his departed wife an anniversary gift by taking Sara to New York City.

On the night of the anniversary the parson took Sara to the Joyce Theater to see a performance of the Pilobolus Dance Theater. Following the evening at the theater, the parson's son, a director of the dance company, invited Sara to attend a party with him, a party at which movie stars were in attendance. Following their evening there Sara was texting her friends madly while the parson smiled at the knowledge Ms. Parson was looking down in approval.

It was a good way to celebrate the day, to turn it into a time of celebration instead of mourning. Sara had provided the parson his escape from the agony of the day.

When Sara and the parson returned home, the parson checked his mailbox. He'd previously asked his postal carrier to hold the mail while he was away. As such, checking the mailbox was more habit than anything else. But in the mailbox was one envelope.

There was no stamp on the envelope. It had not been mailed. It had been personally placed there. The envelope contained a card. The card proclaimed a message.

The message let the parson know that the congregation he served remembered the anniversary, too. It was signed by almost every active member of the church; most of them had written notes to express their knowledge of the importance of the day to the parson. They expressed love for their pastor and prayers God would be with him on this day.

The parson walked up the hill that is his driveway from that mailbox. He walked up with tears flowing down his cheek. The tears were not for Ms. Parson, for his time with Sara in New York had been redemptive. The tears were tears of gratitude that, unlike so many pastors, the parson served a real church.

Letter to Ms. Parson's Granddaughter

Dear Sara,

Your Mama told me it finally happened. Yesterday your tears fell in torrents because your Memo is gone. Weep, Sara, weep; your weeping is a precious gift from God.

You have been so strong, so brave, holding back your tears because you didn't want to cause your Mama to weep more. Hold them back no longer, Sara. Your Mama and I have wept our hearts out, and while we weep still, we wil be the brave ones for a while. Now, it is your turn.

You don't have to be brave about this anymore, Sara. I haven't been so. Your Mama hasn't been so. We miss your Memo so, so much. So weep Sara, weep. Weep because in your weeping God will bring you a blessing, a blessing of comfort, of fulfillment, and most of all a blessing of presence.

I remember the first time I met you. You probably have forgotten. It was three weeks after your Memo married me. The second week after that two of my grandkids came to spend the night. The next weekend you insisted you spend the night. Memo smiled about that, Sara. She smiled at your determination, even at that young age, that nothing would come between the love you and Memo had for each other. And nothing did, Sara, nothing ever did and nothing ever will.

Sara, if you're like me, you probably are having feelings that “I wish I had told her...” “I wish I had spent more time with her ...” I wish … If only ...” Oh, Sara, I wish I had said “I love you” more often. I wish I'd spoken more tender words to her when they wheeled her into surgery. For a good part of the last two months I've beaten myself up over that. So, I know how that can haunt you.

You're still young Sara. Oh, I know you've gotten your driver's license. I know you're not that little girl who came over to protect your relationship with Memo right after we got married. You're a young woman now, a young woman of beauty and poise and on your way to accomplishment. So, Sara, I'm going to talk to you like your Memo would, seeing as how you're a young woman and not a child. Memo used to tell young adults like you to “stop focusing on the woulda and the coulda. Spend your time on what's real.”

Here's what's real, Sara. You miss your Memo. Life will never be the same without your Memo. And you can cry buckets that she'll not be sitting in the grandmother's chair at your wedding, and she won't rock your babies. But Sara as cruel as that is, as unfair as that is, no one will ever be able to take this from you: Your Memo loved you beyond measure. What's important is not what we shoulda said to her, what we would do if she were still here. What's important, Sara, is her love for you.

Memo is dead, Sara. God help you and me, your brother and your Mama, but Memo is dead. Yet nothing will ever destroy the love Memo had for you Sara, nothing. Look at these pictures, Sara. See the love in her eyes for you.

Time will diminish our pain and our feeling of loss. But time will only magnify that you knew such a depth of love. And you will continue to know it. I suspect that, with time, when you do something of worth in life you'll experience that delightful smile she flashed when she was pleased with you. I expect that when you're wondering what path to take you'll feel her presence beside you.

So, Sara, weep. Weep as much as you want. And don't wait two months to let it go this time. And if you need any help you come over to Memo's house and we'll hug and weep together. But when the tears are cried out, when the sobbing is done and we're breathing normal again, I'll look at you and I'll see Memo in you and we'll hug and laugh because we were blessed enough to know that special, special love that came from your Memo.

I love you, Sara.

________________________________

Now, about your grades ….

A Half-Sized Cube Tribute to Ms. Parson

The parson began the day, after his daily walk with Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, with a trip to the hospital. A member was hospitalized in ICU and was in dire straits. His wife talked with the parson in the waiting room following the parson's trip to the her husband's bedside. When the parson was ready to leave he said, “I'm going home and I'm going to rearrange things in the house the way I want them. It's time to get on with my life. It's what Ms. Parson would want. So, unless it's you, I'm not going to answer the phone.”

At home, the parson notified the Chairperson of his Pastor-Parish-Relations Committee that it was her responsibility to inform him of an emergency, that unless he heard from the wife at the hospital or her he was going to try and begin again.

The parson spent the day doing what had to tbe done, and making adjustments from a elderly married couple's abode to an old widower's digs. Charlie Brown followed him around all day as if asking, “What the hell is going on?”

As evening descended upon the valley where the parson lived, he settled back to enjoy a Talapia dinner prepared with a special sauce of honey mustard and mayo garnished with a sprinkling of garlic bread crumbs with pickled beets and french styled beans in a mushroom gravy. The parson felt good. Ms. Parosn woud have wanted him to continue with his lfie.

The end of the day brought saisfaction to the parson, a day marked by more reaching for the future than tears for the past. A day he knew Ms. Parson would want him to calim. The beginnings of a new life had emerged. The pearon settled in to celebrate moving forward.

The day of Ms. Parson's memorial, Dr. Phil DeMore had made reference to a day several week before her surgery. He said, “Lynn sat there talking on the phone to one of her friends. When she hung up she looked over to the parson and said, 'The next person who says to me let me know if there's anything I can do for you is going to get an answer. Yes there is something you can do. You could get me a bottle of Crown Royal.'”

Following that celebration, the parson returned home, to an empty home. There on the front door hung a bottle in a bag. Attached to it was a note, “They were out of Crown Royal. This was the best I could do.” The bag contained a large bottle of Canadian Mist that was twelve years old. The parson put it in the pantry and forgot about it.

Settling down after a day of trying ot establish a new life without her, the parson decided the proper thing would be to raise a toast to her memory. The Canadian Mist came to his mind. He retrieved it from the pantry. Then he went to the freeser to get some ice cubes.

Ms. Parson had a habit of filling ice tarys half full. It drove the parson up the wall. “Why do you do this?” he would ask. She would shrug and smile that smile that was Ms. Parson. When the parson decided upon raising that toast to Ms. Parson because he was moving on as she would want him to, he pulled the ice tray from the freezer. It was then he realized he'd not used the ice tray since Ms. Parson died. It was half full.

The parson stared at the tray. He looked at the empty glass. He put the half-sized cubes into the glass and then splashed the Canadian Mist over the half-sized cubes. Having done so, before he settled onto the sofa, he filled the ice cube tray, half-filled, and placed it back into the freezer.

“Here's to you, Ms. Parosn,” he said. And savored her tribute with half-sized ice cubes submerged in Canadian Mist.

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It Won't Rain Always

Snow, where the parson lives, is rare. The amount of snow which fell on Sunday and Monday piled up the rarity. The Northern portion of the state shut down. Schools closed; factories ceased production; churches canceled services; everyone settled down for a long winter's nap.

The house was empty. The snow prohibited business. Business eased the grip of the memories. The empty house echoed its loneliness. Rather than use the moments to get ahead the parson sat, read, talked to Charlie Brown, called grandchildren. Cooked. Ate. Slept.

“Enough of this,” the parson spoke aloud. He walked to the bedroom where he pulled on layers of clothes and a pair of boots. Properly dressed, he called to Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion. “Charlie Brown, let's go for a walk.”

Charlie Brown roused himself in a statement of loyalty from his bed. He walked down the hall the proper two steps behind the parson. They turned right at the living room and moved toward the front door. It was here the parson learned that Charlie Brown's loyalty, when the temperature is well below freezing and the snow eight inches, is tempered by reality. Charlie Brown paused at the door. He gazed up at the parson with a look that questioned sanity.

“Come on, Charlie,” said the parson as he opened the door. “You need to go with me and take care of your business.” Charlie Brown turned back toward his living room bed. “Charlie,” the parson intoned in a serious tone. Charlie Brown stopped, looked over his shoulder and then continued his trek toward the bed. “Charlie!” the parson said in a more stern voice, “Come. Come, now!” Charlie turned with a huff and walked onto the front porch. The parson closed the door and headed down the steps.

Maybe it was the air. Maybe it was the cold of the snow on his pads. Charlie Brown began to bunce about the yard with a spring to his step. The parson headed toward the path that would lead him deep into the woods. Charlie Brown followed.

It was quiet in the woods. It was cold. It was white. Solitude enveloped the parson in a redemptive way. Up the hill the grandkid's called his mountain he headed, following the winding trail of an old abandoned logging road. The snow crunched beneath his feet breaking the silence of the icy white world that now surrounded him. Up and up the parson went.

Halfway up the hill Charlie Brown turned suddenly left the trail bounding in a bouncy step into the woods. The parson suspected he'd picked up the scent of a rabbit. The parson continued on, the snow still crunching beneath his feet and the quietness playing a harmonic symphony with the world around him.

It was a long walk to the top. The parson's breath came in gulps that peppered the air with a cloud that trailed out in front and then difused itself into the air.

The top of the hill obtained, the parson sat himself upon a rock and looked down on the world beneath him. The expressway was virtually invisible but for the bridges and medium barriers. Parking lots of restaurants and businesses were empty. Smoke rose from chimneys rising from the accumulated snow on rooftops. The world looked as lonely as the parson felt.

The crunchy cadence of his footsteps accompanied him down the toward his house. He whistled for Charlie Brown. He did not come. Down the path he proceeded, whistling for his faithful canine companion every fifty yards. At the bottom he was still alone, still whistling. At the bottom of the steps to the front porch he saw Charlie Brown, sitting at the top, sheltered from the wind.

“Fair weather companion,” the parson muttered as he opened the door. Charlie Brown bounded toward his bed and collapsed as if he'd been to the top of the hill. The parson pulled his jacket off, removed his boots, and hit the play button on the CD player. He walked down the hallway of the empty house, his footsteps echoing. After he changed his clothes he poured a cup of coffee and settled into the chair. The CD player changed discs. Janet Paschal began to sing:

And it won't rain always
The clouds will soon be gone
The sun that they'd been hiding
has been there all along

And it won't rain always
God's promises are true
The sun's gonna shine
in God's own good time
And God will see you through.

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