Questing Parson

I Met God Yesterday

I wrote this on this blog years and years ago. I just felt the urge to offer it again.

 

I met God at church yesterday
and that’s so strange!
I’m the pastor.

I do not go to church for God.
I go to speak of God
To the people.

In church God is often stranger
For I am occupied
With being me.

I met not God in the sermon.    
I wrote the sermon
To give others.

I met God at church yesterday
in water droplets falling
from my hand upon
a baby’s head
and words of
“I baptize you….

I met God yesterday
in an offering plate
containing an unwadded
five dollar bill
given by a widow
on Social Security.

I met God yesterday
in the off-key singing
of one so full of joy
off-key was harmony
and everyone followed
her leading of
each joyous refrain

I met God yesterday
in an abused foster child
pulling upon my stole
until I knelt and felt arms
about my neck
and heard her
whispering in my ear
I love you, pastor.

A Different Story

The meeting was over, but no one seemed in a hurry to leave. The conversation centered for a while on each participant's hopes for the church in the next few years. There was laughter; there was a sense of pride. The parson, sitting at the corner of the table, listened with pleasure.

Eventually, the talk wandered to more personal matters. “Fran,” one lady asked another, “how are things with your sister?”

“How are things with Helen? Oh, my goodness, do you have a few hours. I don't know what we're going to do with her.” Everyone listed to the tale of Helen's refusal to assert herself in a difficult situation at her work. “I'm just flabbergasted,” said Fran, “Mama wouldn't want her rolling over and playing dead like that.”

“I know what you mean,” interjected Susan. “Have you heard about Sam and Veronica? They decided they're not going to church anymore. I mean, just out of nowhere they're not attending. You know Sam was the lay leader of his church for a long time. Veronica says it has nothing to do with the new preacher. But you have to wonder.”

The conversation headed around the corner and seemed to be gathering in all the disappointing people in the community to the table. The parson listened quietly. Susan finally turned to him. “Parson, what do you think about all these people? It seems like everywhere we look people are, well, you know ...”

The parson rose in preparation for leaving. “You know, Susan, my grandfather used to say, “To live above with those we love, well that will be glory. To live below with those we know, now that's a different story.”

Why Can't You Remember?

“You remember me; don't you?” he said with a smile on his face.

I studied him carefully. There was something vaguely familiar about his face but the memory would not come into focus. A former parishioner? My mind quickly attempted an inventory of remembered members. Nothing. College? Another quick inventory brought the same futile results. There was no way to avoid the answer.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Your face is somewhat familiar, but I just can't recall. I'm really sorry.”

“Come on,” he insisted. “Come on. Give it a try.”

I stood there staring in confusion. Give what a try?

“Come on, guess. You don't remember do you. Okay, but you remember Doris,” he said, pointing to the woman beside him. As he pointed I looked at Doris. She was not familiar at all. I did not remember Doris. “Remember, 1963. Oh my goodness, those were the days. We didn't have a care in the world back then. And you certainly had a take no prisoners attitude. It's a wonder you didn't get kicked out of school with all those pranks you pulled.”

Ah ha, I thought. Okay, college. Pranks. Here's a clue. But wait, to this day Jim and I had kept our vow of silence. We were still the only ones who knew. Could Jim have possibly given it up after all these years? Naw, we promised each other we'd never tell who put the cow in the dean's office. Naw. Jim wouldn't have told unless he checked with me first. Still, 1963? Pranks? What else could they be talking about?

I stared more intently at him and his wife. Still memory would not activate any recognition. And yet, they seemed to know about the pranks.

“You know,” he said, “it was just yesterday Doris was talking about that girl you brought to the dance. What in the world was her name? She didn't go to our college. Was she a local girl? I tell you this, she was a looker. Everybody at the dance was envious of you. Doris thinks she was a bit older than you.”

I thought again. A dance date who was good looking. What dance were they taking about? Could they have been talking about Pamela Jane? She did go to the spring dance with me. She was a looker. Okay, pranks and a dance and a pretty girl. Why can't I put these together?

“Don't tell me you still can't remember us,” he said. “You're goint to hurt our feelings.”

I didn't want to hurt their feelings. But who were they? What was wrong? Why couldn't I place them? Maybe. Maybe it was because he hadn't told me his name. I pointed to his wife. “Doris. Doris. But remind me of your name,” I said to him.

“My name. Oh, my goodness, you don't remember. Edward. It's Edward,” he said holding his arms out to the side in a “here I am” gesture.

Edward? 1963? Pranks? Good looking date? Nope. I couldn't put the name Edward with any of it.

Just then another man walked up. Edward hailed him, “Randy, look who's here. You remember Bart.”

“I don't think I do,” said Randy. “Do we know each other?”

I quickly informed Randy my name was not Bart.

“You're not Bart?” asked Edward. “Why didn't you say so earlier?”

Where Do I Get These Stories?

The parson sat in the customer service waiting room of the car dealer reading from his Kindle. The car dealer was a hundred miles from his home. There was little chance of anyone he knew interrupting. And so he read with relish and enjoyment. His deep absorption in the work resulted in no small part from the non-theological theme of the book. It was John Grisham's latest, The Confession.

One of the novel's main characters, the Reverend Keith Schroeder, had just engaged the main villian when it happened.

“Excuse me,” she said. “You're the Parson.” As she spoke she sat down in the chair adjacent in a manner that indicated a conversation was not to be avoided.

“Yes, Ma'am, I am,” the parson replied.

“Oh, I knew it. I heard you preach over at Reverend Benjamin Allen's church. I'm not a member there, but my sister is and she and I were going to visit with my Unclle Edwin that afternoon so I went to church with her so we could get a good start on the trip to Edwin's. You know what? I can still remember what you preached on. You preached on Jesus calling the disciples and how they left their nets and you said nobody ever thinks about the daddy who had to clean up the nets and the fish because they left them laying around. I just thought that was such a fresh approach. Isn't that amazing. I mean that sermon was almost two years ago and I can still remember it.”

The parson wedged a word in, “That's really flattering. I appreciate it. I'm sorry, I don't seem to remember your name.”

Of course you wouldn't,” she said as she placed her hand on the parson's arm. “I only met you once and just for a minute after the service. I'm Rhonda Collins sister. Oh, wait, you don't know my sister because you just preached there that one time. Oh, how silly of me. Anyway I knew it was you when I saw you sitting here. You know I read your book. Rhonda's husband told me about it on the ride to Uncle Edwin's. I really enjoyed it.”

“Thank you,” said the parson. “That, too, is flattering. Did you tell me your name?”

“Of course, I did. Remember, I'm Rhonda Collin's sister. You know, Rhonda's husband, Howard, he told me about your blog and now I read that regularly.” She looked across the room at a woman who was just sitting down. “Oh, my goodness, how are you Patricia? I haven't seen you for a while. Do you know the Parson? He writes books and writes on the internet. You should read some of the things he writes.”

She turned back to the parson. “Can I ask you a question? Do all those things really happen to you. I mean there's something different in there every day. I talked to Howard about it and he said that he doubted you ever wrote about what exactly happens. He said that he thinks something happens and you take that little something and turn it into a story. I told him I bet you sometimes actually write exactly what happened.”

She took a deep breath in preparation forpiling on some more words, but was interrupted by the service representative. “Mrs. Harrington. Your car's ready.”

She got up to leave and headed toward the door. Halfway there she turned back to the parson, “Maybe I can catch you again before you leave. I'm dying to know whether Howard or I am right.”

 

Good Intentions, But ....

Ring! Ring!

The parson looked at the screen on the iPhone. His mind quickly weighed the options available to him: 1) let it go to voice mail, 2) let it go to voice mail and then delete the message before listening, 3) let it go to voice mail and listen to the message and then delete it without returning the call, 4) and the least attractive choice was to answer the phone. Realizing the first three options only put off the inevitable conversation he chose number four.

“Hello, Sharon. How are you?”

“I'm fine, Parson. I'm must fine.”

“Well, what prompts the pleasure of your call at this early hour?” asked the parson.

“What prompts my call is that Ed and I have decided we need to do something to make sure you're okay.”

“Thanks for your thoughtfulness, Sharon. I'm as good as I can be under the circumstances.”

“Well, we were talking about those circumstances, Parson. And Ed has said it will be okay for me to come over to your house two or three times a week and straighten up and clean up.”

“That's awfully kind of you, Sharon. But I'm managing on my own. I really do appreciate the offer.”

“Parson, there's no reason for you to send your laundry out. There's no reason why I can't come over there and take care of that.”

“I don't send my laundry out, Sharon. When I was in graduate school I took an advance course in washing machine operation. I also took a course in ironing.”

“Very funny, Parson. Seriously, you need some help. Without Ms. Parson around to take care of things you need some help and we're going to give it.”

“Sharon,” the parson said in a steady and deliberate tone, “no one is going to be trapsing about my house. It might surprise you to know I'm pretty good at picking up after myself.”

“Nevertheless, Parson ….”

“Nevertheless, Sharon, while I appreciate your intention, the very last thing I need now is to have to worry about someone in my house. Thank you for what you want to do, but I'm going to manage on my own.”

“I can't believe you're refusing to let us take care of you.”

“I'm not, Sharon, I'm just rejecting your definition of what I need. I tell you what, if you really want to help why don't you get on the phone and call everybody you can think of. Invite them to come to church this Sunday. It's the first Sunday of the new year and the best thing you could do for me is to fill up every pew this Sunday.”

“Well, I don't know about that, Parson. I'm not sure folks would appreciate me calling and telling them they need to go to church.”

“You know, Sharon, I've got a feeling you'll be able to overcome that reluctance to interfere. I'm getting real excited about seeing all those faces Sunday. You and Ed have a great day. And thanks for calling.”

Meeting Fred

The parson woke early and, after loading Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, in the back seat, headed south to the Really, Really Big City. The incoming Council on Ministries of his church would soon be working out details on the coming year. A passel of denominational programming calendars would be needed. Thus, he headed toward the Really, Really Big City and the denominational book store.

A stop at the QuikTrip, America's exceptional gas and convenience store, allowed the parson his morning exercise as he walked Charlie Brown around the half mile circumference of the facility. He placed Charlie Brown back in the car, headed inside to acquire his daily dose of cappuccino, returned to the car and the two headed down the interstate.

Being the first customer of the day, the parson got the royal treatment. The manager pointed out the various sales they had going with one shelf full of books for one dollar. After picking up his supply of calendars the parson wandered about the store looking at the purchase opportunities. It took only a few minutes to ascertain why the dollar books were being sold at that price. Back in the corner with the other sale books, the parson did find a few bargains and placed them in the stack with the church supplies. He took a few moments to walk the aisles but paused only to contemplate the placement of a book about Sarah Palin next to a book about Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Unable to unravel the logic he headed to the checkout.

The parson let Charlie Brown out to walk about and lay claim to any shrubs that interested him. None did; no more than twenty feet from the car he turned and walked back, jumped in and plopped down. The trip home was uneventful. The miles clicked off in a steady cadence, one mile flowing into the other to the rhythms of NPR's Performance Today. Two-thirds the way home the parson switched the station to WUTC, NPR in Chattanooga, and the eclectic music selected by Cleveland Carlson.

The gas gauge was flirting with empty as the parson and Charlie Brown approached again the Quik Trip exit. He pulled off and headed to the pump. While filling the tank, the parson was hailed by the man at the opposite pump.

“Hey, fellow,” he said as he pointed toward Charlie Brown sitting in the back seat, “what kind of dog is that?”

“He's a Catahoula Leopard Dog,” the parson informed him. “His name is Charlie Brown.”

“My goodness, that's a really fine looking animal. Whew, he's got my dog beat. My dog's named “Shirley,” she's part Pekingese and part Basset Hound. I've got to tell you she's a strange looking dog. But me and Mildred love her. We just couldn't get along without her. We've been married for about thirty years now and she's only the second dog we've had. The first was a Boxer, but that dog didn't have the personality that Shirley had. I mean, you've got a fine dog there, but Shirley, while she cain't hold a candle to that dog of yours, well, me and Mildred think she's just fine cause she's just part of the family. Mildred and I met when I got back from serving in the United States Navy. I was on a carrier. Sailed all over the world, I want to tell you. Anyway, when we got back my sister, Helen, she's the baby of the family, she introduced me and Mildred and wouldn't you know it we just fell in love and got married. We had three kids, but they are all grown now. The youngest, he's in the Navy himself. And he's sailing on the USS Abraham Lincoln, a carrier man just like his old man. So anyway the nest is empty and all Mildred and I have is Shirley. She's good company; but, like I say, she's not the kind of dog your dog is. Shirley's a nurse; well, she's not a registered nurse. She's a LPN, but she's real good at her job. I tell you there have been all kinds of times when I was under the weather and Shirley got me back on my feet just as quick as a thief running when he hears a gun cocking. Yeah, she's really good. Mildred's not working in the hospital anymore, though. She kind of wanted to get off her feet a bit. She's got some kind of problem that makes her ankle swell if she's on those hard hospital floors too long. So she's become a home nurse; you know, she goes to the sick person's house and stays with them during the day. She meets lots of interesting people. And I have to tell you she is pretty popular with the families. Shirley ain't never met a stranger. Our preacher made her the greeter at the church because she's so friendly with everyone. We go to the Church of the Gathered down on Highway 46. I'm sure you've heard of it. Brother Horace Restive is the pastor there. Whewee, can that man preach! You should come and visit with us some time. Well, anyway, it was nice to talk with you. Say, do you think I could pet that fine dog of yours?

“Sure,” said the parson. He stepped back. The man reached in the window. Charlie Brown extended his head. The man petted him and said, “Hello, Charlie Brown.

“Well, I've got to go now,” he said. “I don't know if I told you are not, but I'm headed over to Owens Brick Yard. I hear they're hiring some part time people and I thought I'd see if I could get on. I don't really need the extra work but we can always find a way to spend the money. Christmas is coming us and with those grandkids we'll sure enough be able to spend it. Oh, my goodness, look at the time. I've got to hurry over to the brick yard. Sorry, to rush off like this. It was nice talking with you.”

The parson watched him drive away. He got in the car and pulled away from the pump to park at the front of the store in case another needed the spot to fill up. As he walked to the door Helen Sparks, a member of his church was coming out.

“Parson, I saw you talking to Fred Peavy; I didn't know you knew Fred.”

“I do now,” said the parson.

Thank You For Your Service, Natasha

There’s something about airports, especially the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. The whole world, it seems, passes through those gateways, all with a destination to meet or being the destination being met.

The scream wasn’t really a scream; it was more a shriek. Each decibel must have been a measure of the time of their separation. She had been standing at the place where arriving passengers first appear as the enforcers of airport security would allow. Like an energizer bunny she kept time with the march of her anxiety with the up and down bouncing of her body. She saw him; the scream commenced; she propelled herself toward him and he was enveloped by her arms as tears drenched four cheeks.

He sat in a seat near the window overlooking the jets being prepared. A notebook computer was in his lap; plugged into the computer was a Verizon internet connection driver; he punched the keys with the index finger of his right hand as he spoke into the cell phone held to his ear by his left hand. He spoke first in Spanish. Then he spoke in French. Then he spoke in English. I speak a smidgen of Spanish; I only know how to say three phrases in French and two of them I can’t write here; but I do speak English. The Spanish and the French participants in the conversation were about to get fired if they didn’t get something straightened out.

She had a certain air of confidence about her. She looked to be in her mid-forties, dressed in a nicely tailored business suit accented with a floral scarf tied bandana style around her neck. She approached the agent at the departure gate and said to him in a voice that commanded attention. “I’m going down to that restaurant to grab a bite to eat. Tell the pilots if I’m not back when they’re ready I’ll be here shortly.” She left before the agent could comply.

A young lady in her late teens or early twenties stood somewhat apart from the others with a quiet demeanor that reflected assurance. Her choice of clothing was obviously not dictated by fashion but the directive of the United States Secretary of the Navy. Her dress whites were gleaming; her shoes were spit shine bright; her arm displayed the stripes of a E-3 Naval Airman; her auburn hair was drawn back in a bun; her naval hat held in her hand. None of it could disguise her beauty.

There were four of them, mother, father, three-and-a-half year old son and infant. The three-year-old pulled his own appropriately sized bag on wheels behind him. They boarded single file. “You go first,” said the mother to the three-year-old. You be the leader.” He did for about twenty feet down the aisle, then, he turned, “I don’t want to be the leader anymore.”

The young woman in her whites sat in the seat across from the parson, but not before she carefully pulled her uniform in such a way as to minimize the possibility of causing a wrinkle. She sat militarily rigid and upright.

The wheels left the ground. The plane headed to Salt Lake City. Before the landing, the parson spoke to her. Her name’s Natasha. She’d just graduated from Aviation Technology School in Pensacola and was heading home to visit her folks before going to her duty station in Norfork.

Everyone departed the plane in an orderly fashion in Salt Lake City. The three-year-old followed his mother, still not ready to lead.  The parson followed Natasha. She is.

Alone On A Bench

The parson sat on the bench in the park listening to the band’s rendition of “Stranger In the Night.” The crowd was decent but not enough to crowd the little park. The head of the day was giving way to the cool of night but the weight of Georgia humidity remained. The parson felt for the band members whose foreheads sparkled from the beads of sweat.

Vera Huddlemann approached. “Parson, I didn’t expect to see you out tonight. Where’s Ms. Parson?”

“Ms. Parson is creating some stained glass artistic masterpiece, Vera. What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was shopping at the Little Ones Boutique and heard the music so I decided to come on over. I don’t usually come out to these things.” Vera sat down on the bench beside the parson. “The band seems to be quite good.”

“They are, Vera,” said the parson. “I’m particularly fond of the trumpet player. Jim Lester told me they’re going to play “Stardust” in a few. I’m hanging around for that.”

The band played two more pieces as Vera and the parson sat listening, nodding occasionally to the people who walked by. After that Vera turned to face the parson.

“Parson, I drove past the church today and noticed Cynthia Ryder’s car was there.”

“Was it?”

“It was. I was just wondering what she might have been doing at the church.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” the parson suggested.

“I thought I’d ask you, Parson, since your car was there, too.”

“Was it?”

“It was. So I suppose you’d know what Cynthia was doing there.”

“That’s possible, Vera.”

“Well, Parson, I mean, do you think it’s proper for you and Cynthia to be at the church together?”

“Vera, did it ever occur to you Cynthia parked her car at the church to car pool with someone?”

“Is that why her car was there?”

“I’d ask Cynthia about that Vera, if you have to know.”

“Well, I’m asking you, Parson.”

“Before I answer that, Vera, can I ask you a personal question?”

“I guess so.”

“Was there some reason you decided to come sit with me on this bench when Ms. Parson’s not around?”

It was but a few minutes after that the considerably talented trumpet player pealed forth the smooth notes of Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust” and the parson sat back, alone, on the bench, eyes closed, to enjoy the classic.

I Knew You Would Be Here

It was that time in the service when the parson gathered the young folks at the front of the altar for their special time. At the parson’s church it was an eclectic group that gathered. They ranged in age from four to twenty. As the years had passed during the parson’s tenure the “children” had grown to teens and then college students. Yet, still they sat in the place for what used to be called the “Children’s Sermon.”

On this particular Sunday they had all laughed when one of the parson’s object lessons became a lesson in how not to handle that particular object. Still, the slipup provided an entry into the moral of the story. And then the parson asked everyone to bow for prayer.

When the “Amen” was pronounced, the Song Leader stood to announce the hymn. He didn’t get to.

“Excuse me,” called a voice from the vestibule. A woman started walking down the aisle.

It was Miriam Peabody. She was not a member of the parson’s church. The parson doubted she belonged to any particular congregation. But she was active in the community and always championing one cause or the other. Two weeks ago her group had asked the church to be allowed to use a diner the church had at the regional fairgrounds. They’d agreed and the parson provided her a key.

She walked down the aisle, stopping about halfway to greet Henry Stoddard, who seemed a bit perplexed at her presence. She then continued up to the altar, around the altar and up to the parson now standing near the pulpit.

“I figured I’d find you hear this morning, Parson, what with you folks having church and all. I wanted to personally thank you,” she said as she extended her hand, “for letting us use your diner during the Relay for Life. It was a big help having a place for people to have refreshments. We really appreciate it.” She turned to look out over the congregation, waved to them and continued, “Thanks to all of you.” Then she turned back to the parson and said, “Anyway knowing you’d be here I knew this would be a perfect time to return the key.” She handed the parson the key, and said, “Once again, thanks so much.”

The parson and the Song Leader and every person in the sanctuary watched her head back down the aisle, out the door and into the vestibule.

The Song Leader finally regained composure and signaled the musicians to begin. They did. As the intro to the hymn was played, the parson thought to himself: “When I prayed for something to happen that was not printed in the bulletin I should have been more specific.”

Who's Ministry Is It?

The parson was coming out of the hospital following a visit to a member. In the lobby he was greeted by a neighboring pastor.

“Hello, Edwin,” said the parson. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been kind of busy, Parson,” said Edwin. “

“Well, I suppose that’s good news, Edwin. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been busy reorganizing the administrative structure of the church. You know when I got there these folks just seemed to be content with the organization patterns they have been in for decades. It’s not very productive. So we’re mixing things up a bit to achieve more efficiency of ministry.”

“That sounds interesting,” said the parson. “Are the folks going for this?”

“Well, there has been some resistance, but I’m delivering a series of sermons of the propriety in organization to achieve evangelization.”

“Good luck on that, Edwin,” said the parson.

“Thanks, Parson,” replied Edwin. “Look, Parson, I hate to bring this up, but I need to discuss an issue with you.”

“Sure, Edwin, what is it?

“Okay. Your church has that soup supper thing on Monday nights. Now I know you guys deliver a supper to the homebound folks in your church. . . “

“We do, Edwin,” interrupted the parson. “It’s a really meaningful thing for the folks. Our young people help deliver the meals, and we’re discovering the homebound folks just are eager for them to show up every week. The whole program has been a blessing to those who get the meals and those who deliver the meals.”

“I’m sure you’re getting a lot out of it, Parson, but you’ve started taking meals to people who are not members of your church.”

“There are a few,” said the parson.

“You’re taking meals to Lawrence McFadden.”

“We do. I think his niece, Helen, told us about him. With his wife so dependent on him he’s really overworked. It seems he’s really appreciative of not having to prepare a meal one night of the week.”

“Parson, are you aware Lawrence McFadden is a member of my church?”

“Is he? No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, he is,” said Edwin with a huff. “And excuse me for being so frank, Parson, but I think providing ministry to Lawrence is the task of our church and not yours.”

The parson put his hand on Edwin’s shoulder and said, “I agree with you one hundred percent, Edwin. Let me know when you folks want to take over the duties.”

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