Questing Parson

My Favorite Baptist Preacher

Is Bill Moyers optimistic?
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Sorting Out the Scams

The parson opened his email to discover an “All Pastor Bulletin” in the form of a forwarded message from the area headquarters. Seems Church Superior had received an email from a pastor in the area who, in turn, had received an email from the pastor of another, more conservative denomination, who had encountered a “scam.”

The woman, who was the subject of the email, had approached the pastor after church on November 7^th. She'd asked for $30 to “get her car fixed.” The pastor told her he'd buy gas to put in her car. She left without his gas. And then, the email warned, the pastor who emailed the Church Superior received a call from another pastor who said he'd gotten a similar request. Obviously, the email warned the hundred or so pastor, there was a woman trying to scam pastors.

Afternoon found the parson in the parlor of a nearby church to discuss the community Thanksgiving service. At the meeting's end, Ron Elderbee, the pastor of Growing Despite Ourselves Church of the Laid Back, asked the parson, “Did you get the email about the woman asking for gas?”

“I did,” responded the parson.

“I think that woman may be the one who came by my church the Wednesday before.”

“You do?”

“Yes, but she only asked me for $25.”

The parson didn't respond.

“How do you handle these situations, Parson? I mean how do you sort out the real ones from the ones who just want to scam you?”

“I don't,” said the parson. “That's above my pay grade.”

“Above your pay grade? What are you talking about?”

“If I have it, Ron, I just tend to give them the money and let the Lord sort them out.”

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.

Woman On A Mission

The parson arrived at the church kitchen in preparation for Soup Supper Monday. The weekly event had started to provide meals for those who needed such in the worst part of the recession. Now it had grown to include providing a meal to home bound, sick, and/or lonely folks throughout the area. The youth of the church delivered the meals each week, a project whose clients had grown to a much larger number than those served at the church.

Nevertheless, Florence was always there. Florence was there long before any other recipients of the meal arrived. She usually showed up shortly after the first cook arrived. As usual on this particular day Florence appeared at the kitchen door to inquire what was on the menu.

“Tonight we’re having Nacho Cheese Soup, Florence,” said the parson.

“What kind of cheese are you using?”

“We’re using some Velveeta cheese tonight.”

“I see,” said Florence, “did you check the expiration date on that cheese?”

“I did not, Florence. We bought it this morning. If you’re worried about it, the package is in that trash can.”

Florence ambled into the kitchen with a body language that seemed to ask why this matter wasn’t resolved before her arrival. She poked around the trash and finally retrieved the wrapping from the cheese. After careful inspection she announced, “Okay, that will be okay. In fact that’s fresh enough I could take what’s leftover off your hands.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Florence,” said the parson.

“You buy that ground beef today?”

“I did.”

“Did you check to see how fresh it was?”

“No, I didn’t. Tell you what, we’re not going to start serving for an hour. I could give you a little to taste, and if you don’t get sick before then we’ll know it’s okay.”

“Ha, ha, Parson, you’re funny. I guess I’ll trust you. You haven’t made me sick yet.”

Florence went back into the fellowship hall.The parson continued cooking but noticed as he glanced through the pass through window she was settled in, seated at one of the tables with her feet propped up on another chair reading a newspaper. Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, had his head resting on her thigh as she scratched absent minded-ly. 

The parson continued with his cooking. In a half hour, Virginia Hopper came in to help.

“Florence is in the fellowship hall waiting,” she informed the parson.

“I know,” said the parson. “She’s already approved the menu.”

“I wonder how much money she’ll get out of us tonight,” said Virginia. “When you told us God sent her as an object lesson, I thought you were nuts. Fact is, I still do.”

The parson had once explained to the volunteers Florence hit up ever week that she was a professional beggar and she was really good at her profession. He suggested if the followers of the Lord would get as good at their job as Florence was at hers the world would be a better place.

Everyone was surprised this Monday, however. Florence did not ask for a penny. She did suggest to the parson and several other folks that a special collection on Sunday morning to help her purchase a new transmission for her van would be appropriate.

The parson was scrubbing a pot when Florence came back into the kitchen. The youth had returned from distributing the carryout meals. The fellowship hall was full of laughter and slurping sounds as the kids devoured their soup while updating their Facebook age on the church’s wi-fi.

“Have a good week, Florence,” said the parson. “See you next Monday.”

“You could see me Sunday, Parson, if you’d have that special offering for my transmission.”

“Let me think about it,” said the parson.

“Okay,” she said, but I do need one of those carryout meals.”

“You didn’t get enough to eat?”

“No, I got plenty. Ms. Parson sure knows how to make pineapple upside down cake.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” said the parson. “Why do you want a carryout page?”

“Well, my landlord is an alcoholic, you know. He kind of lives from one SSI check to the next, and his ain’t as big as mine. So, anyway, he’s really sick. Don’t know what’s wrong with him. So I thought maybe some of that soup …. What did you call it?”

“Nacho Cheese.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Nacho Cheese. So I could take some of that home with me and he could have a good meal. It probably would help him.”

“Okay, Florence,” said the parson. “Hang on a minute.”

He turned around to behold Virginia holding two takeout plates for Florence.

“I appreciate this,” said Florence.

“I appreciate you helping others,” said the parson.

“Well, that’s what we Christians do, Parson. That’s what we Christians do.”

The parson watched her walk from the kitchen and through the fellowship hall. She stopped at the door, put her plates on a table, and reached down to scratch Charlie Brown behind both his ears.

“I’ll see ya next Monday, Charlie Brown,” she said. She picked up her plates and headed out on her Christian mission.

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Thoughts on Compassion from Sister Joan Chittister

Conversation with Joan Chittister - PG5312 from 30goodminutes on Vimeo.

Jamaica Died

Jamaica died. Funny, that seems such a trifle thing to say, but it is true. Jamaica died. My friend, the Rev. Paul Turner, called to tell me the news. Jamaica died.

This did not make the evening news. There are not going to be scores of people at his funeral. But he will be missed; he will be missed because Jamaica was one of a kind, an original, unique, never to be forgotten by those who really knew him.

He was an attraction around the neighborhood of the inner-city church where I was pastor. When Jamaica walked down the streets everyone knew it was Jamaica walking down the streets. Jamaica’s attire could not be missed. On any given Wednesday, or Thursday or Friday, for that matter, you might see Jamaica strolling along singing some tune at the top of his voice for an audience of himself. It was possible to ignore the singing, but one could not ignore the way he was dressed.

Jamaica was way ahead of his time in fashion taste. He may have been centuries ahead. Or, come to think of it, he could have been centuries behind. Who knows? What he was, without a doubt, was one of a kind.

As Jamaica walked down that sidewalk singing his song, he might be sporting a turquoise print skirt worn over navy blue sweatpants. Both of these would stand in stark contrast to the black and white plaid vest worn over a tuxedo shirt with blue button studs. And the top might be tastefully adorned with a pith helmet of faded khaki color.

Jamaica resided on this earth in the parish I served, but Jamaica lived on a separate plain. Jamaica was not inhabited by the normal mores that constrain the average person. Indeed, Jamaica was beyond average. His clothing was but the beginning.

On a frequent but irregular basis Jamaica would attend our church services. As is the custom of fashion plates like Jamaica he always made a late entrance. That entrance would have him parading down the aisle toward the front pews immediately after the first hymn, but after everyone was seated in order to afford them a view of his latest expression of eccentric fashion. He had been known to stop before entering his selected pew to raise his hand in recognition of the pastor and call out to me, “I’m here, Pastor, and I’m yearning to hear the Word.”

My church was a teaching parish. Seminary students assisted with the service. One of my greatest delights was the first time Jamaica showed up in the tenure of one of these students. As the parishioners and visitors and Jamaica filed out, shaking hands and proclaiming how they “enjoyed” my sermon, when Jamaica came by, I’d introduce him to the rookie student and then say, “Jamaica, this is a seminary student. Could you tell her about the Book of Romans?”

He would. Having the student trapped by the subtle way I’d worked her into a corner so she couldn’t escape, he would, in fact, recite the Book of Romans to her.

Jamaica was a star student in high school long ago. He excelled in athletics and academics. And then the accident happened. He struck his head. Brain damage resulted. Jamaica was never the same. A young black kid from a poor black family got limited medical care. Jamaica descended into a world that only he inhabited.  

I could never enter Jamaica’s world. But occasionally, in those rare moments of lucidity, he entered mine. There was the day we sat in the window of Zesto’s devouring the fried chicken, onion rings, and blueberry milk shakes and talked of the recent City Council elections. He explained to me the prejudices and misdirected efforts of the occupants of the local police precinct. And on one of those occasions he even discussed what he classified as the “shallow theology” that had informed my sermon on the previous Sunday.

I’m remembering the last time we ate together in that window. He was dressed in creased blue jeans, with a floral skirt of some summer weight pleated material that would rise and fall with the movement of his walking. These were accented by the oxford blue button down shirt with the black and white striped tie, all of which stood in stark contrast to the bright red straw Easter style bonnet upon his head with white feathery object sticking out the right side. I don’t remember what we talked about that night. But I do remember when we left. I turned toward my car; he turned in the opposite direction and began to skip down the sidewalk singing, “Oh what a beautiful morning …” which sounded incongruous coming from him in the late hours of the night.

My last memory of Jamaica is the day I did a video interview with the Reverend Paul Turner about his faith journey into his ministry to the GLBTQ community. We’d finished the interview in the parlor of the Epworth United Methodist Church, the church of the parish I’d served so long ago and where Jamaica had felt welcomed. During the last twenty minutes or so of the interview Jamaica had his face up against the window with his palms plastered to his cheeks to give him a clear view.

Afterward, I took Paul outside to meet Jamaica. We talked for a while. We shared some good stories. Jamaica told me he loved me. He needed a ride to someplace. I asked Paul if he could take him. As they walked toward the car I called out, “Hey, Jamaica, tell Pastor Paul about the Book of Romans.” The last words I heard Jamaica say were directed at Paul:

 ^“Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle and set apart for the gospel of God— the gospel he promised beforehand through his prophets in the Holy Scriptures regarding his Son, who as to his human nature was a descendant of David, and who through the Spirit of holiness was declared with power to be the Son of God by his resurrection from the dead: Jesus Christ our Lord. Through him and for his name's sake, we received grace and apostleship to call people from among all the Gentiles to the obedience that comes from faith ….”  His voice faded as he and Paul drove off.

Jamaica died. He was my friend. I loved him. I will miss him.

A Hug, Soup, And A Shower

The parson was sitting on a picnic table bench that was, itself, sitting in front of the chain link fence bordering the children’s playground behind the church fellowship hall. A car trailing blue smoke pulled into the parking lot. The same car appeared at about the same time each Monday when the church opened it’s free soup supper.

A second car, this one a new Honda Accord, pulled in behind. 

Two kids, a boy of ten and a girl nine, bounded from the first car. The boy raced across the parking lot toward the fellowship hall at a full sprint. The girl jogged along behind.

The man who’d exited the trailing car walked at a leisurely pace behind the youthful rush.

The mother of the two sprinters now exited her car whose exhaust system let forth with a loud burp as she did. She followed even more leisurely behind the man. 

“Hi, Parson,” greeted the boy as he pulled the door open and dashed inside before the parson could reply.

The girl decreased her pace steadily as she approached. She did not reach for the door. She jumped into the parson’s lap and hugged his neck. “Hi, Parson, guess what.”

“What?” asked the parson pulling his head back to stare at her hair that had not been combed or brushed in at least a week. Her dress was one size too big, a hand-me-down or Goodwill special he assumed.

“We have a new calf. She’s not even as big as Charlie Brown. She got stuck and I had to help her out, but I think she’s going to be okay. I named her Peppermint.”

“Well, good for you,” said the parson as the man walked pulled the door to the Fellowship Hall open and nodded to the parson as he did. “When was she born?”

“Yesterday.”

“I guess you’re going to be busy a while,” the parson observed. The girl’s mother now entered the Fellowship Hall but she did not speak or acknowledge the presence of the parson or even her daughter.

She sat on the bench talking with the parson about calves and chickens a big bull and one really mean teacher at school. The parson listened quietly. It was her private time with the one she considered her pastor even if she could not articulate that. The parson learned of the week’s activities, of her dad’s residing in a different city; of an aunt who was going to have a baby and an “A” on a math test.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

She smiled, “You know I am.”

The parson took her hand and together they walked in. Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion rose from beside the bench where he’d been sleeping and followed. 

“Go wash your hands,” said the parson.

“Okay.”  She skipped off down the hallway toward the restroom. The parson headed toward the Men’s Room to wash his hands.

Task completed they met at the serving table. It was beef vegetable night. They both got a bowl. The parson, from experience, got two extra bowls. A plate was stacked with four pieces of cornbread. They headed to the table where her brother sat. Her mother was off at another table carrying on an animated conversation with Florence, the parson’s favorite professional beggar.

The parson looked at her brother. “Did you say a blessing.”

“Naw!”

The parson said nothing. He just looked.

“Okay, okay.” Heads were nodded and the boy said, “Thanks God for this soup; it sure is good. Amen.”

“Thank you for that,” the parson said. And then the girl and the parson in a seemingly choreographed movement crumbled a slice of cornbread into their bowls. Now it was chow down time.

When the devouring time was over, the parson pushed the two extra bowls across the table. 

“We’re not supposed to go back for seconds,” she said.

“You didn’t,” said the parson. “These bowls were already here.”

Both of them smiled and began to slurp down their largess.

Later that night, the parson sat on the sofa watching television. His phone rang. It was the man who’d exited the Honda Accord.

“How could you do that?”

“Do what?”

“How can you sit there with that girl and hug her the way you do all the while knowing she probably hasn’t had a bath in two weeks. Did you smell her?”

“I did. And she hasn’t had a bath in two weeks. The weather is too cold. It’s supposed to get into the seventies later this week; she’ll probably bathe two or three times a week then. They don’t have running water right now.”

“Look, Parson, don’t you realize that child probably has lice?”

“It’s not probably. She does.”

“And you still hugged her?”

“I did. That’s the advantage of my hair loss. And, unlike her, I take a shower every day. That gives the me the luxury of being able to hug her before I check for lice.”

Those Other Kind of People

The parson sat at the far end of the fellowship hall, comparing iPhone Apps with two of the youth. The shared appreciation of the power of the cell phones had come months before when in the middle of the sermon the cell phones of every youth in the church began to vibrate. Those who were able sneakily checked their phones to read a text: “This is the Parson. Pay attention the next part of the sermon. It's really good.”

Now on this Soup Supper Monday, where the parson’s church provided a free meal to anyone who wanted it - rich or poor, he and the young people exchanged thoughts on technology and they educated the parson on how to utilize all the marvels of his device, a steady parade of people entered. 

For a long while only members of the church came to partake of the gastronomic delight the parson’s own hands had prepared. About thirty minutes after the doors had opened the team who delivered meals to the homebound and sick arrived and packed up meals in takeout containers and departed. Shortly after the parson felt two arms wrap around his neck from behind. 

“Hello, Peggy,” said the parson, without turning. He knew it was Peggy, not from her hug but from the smell of her unwashed body. 

“Hi, Peggy,” said the assembled young people in one form of another, as the parson turned his chair around.

“You look pretty,” said the parson, peering beneath the matted hair that probably had not been combed or brushed in a week into the innate beauty that was obviously there. 

“Thank you, Parson,” she said. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“I got an A on that report you helped me with. My teacher was really happy.”

“That makes me happy, too, Peggy,” said the parson. She leaned forward and hugged the parson’s neck. 

“Get something to eat,” said the parson. Peggy turned to do so as the parson called out to her brother already filling his bowl and plate. It was never a guess as to whether Peggy and her brother were hungry. “Hello, Ralph,” the parson greeted.

“Hi, Parson.”

“Have you been fishing lately?” The parson knew Ralph often fished the ponds near his house. He also knew Ralph’s fishing was a necessary supplement to the family’s diet. 

“Yeah,” said Ralph, smiling, walking over to the parson. The youth pulled back a bit, for Ralph exuded the same aroma as his sister. “You know that pond across the highway from us? Well, I caught two catfish yesterday that were this big.” Ralph held up his hands to indicate the size. The parson knew his estimate was probably accurate as Ralph didn’t lie about fishing.

Peggy and Ralph and their mother headed to a table before the artificial fireplace with the gas logs. They sat down and began to consume their meal with the force of an industrial vacuum.  

The parson’s cell phone vibrated. He looked down to see a text from a youth across the table from him. The text read: “What’s wrong with that woman. Even if you are poor you can make your kids take a bath and brush their hair occasionally.”

The parson looked across the table at the mystified youth. He smiled, but before he could answer six more people came bounding in from the cold. Two of them lived on the fringe, dabbling consistently with drugs more often than not inebriated. And yet, those two, at the encouragement of Ms. Parson, had begun to gather others who lived under the bridge on Highway 41 and give them a ride to Soup Supper Monday. 

“Hey, what’s cooking, Parson?” chimed out Denver the leader of the under-the-bridge brigade.

“Soup.” said the parson.

“Okay,” said Denver, “but who made the soup this night?”

“I did,” said the parson.

Denver came over to the parson’s seat, “That’s good,” he whispered. “When that other lady makes the soup she doesn’t put as much meat in it as you do.”

“Eat your soup and be thankful no matter who made it,” said the parson.

“Amen,” proclaimed one of the other under-the-bridge citizens.

The under-the-bridge group were halfway down the line of crock pots with soup, platters of cornbread, brownies and slices of cake, when Peggy called to the parson.

“Bye, Parson.”

The parson looked up to see the two unkempt kids being literally dragged from the room, their bowls of soup and other food sitting half-consumed on the table. Their mother hissed to the parson in a stage whisper, “I can’t believe you let those kind of people in here.”

Becoming One of Them

The parson was sitting on a sofa in the library of the big university that was home to the seminary, talking with a colleague of long standing and two relatively new clerics. 

Frank, one of the younger ones talked of encountering a person who worked with folks of a lower economic status. He described the man’s work, the type of clients he served and shared the story of a couple of successes.

Norman, the parson’s colleague, asked, “Is he a member of your church?”

“No, sir, he’s not,” said Frank, “but he occasionally attends.”

“You know,” said Norman, who was an instructor in pastoral care at the seminary, “I get the impression that although you praise this man’s work, you have some reservations about him.”

Frank contemplated the statement a moment, then replied. “I guess you’re right. Whenever he talks about his clients there’s an unease about him. Sometimes it comes off as being nervous; sometimes it comes off as a bit of superiority attitude. I don’t know what it is but it’s like he’s trying to place a barrier between him and the people he’s working for.”

Norman, always interested in people leaned forward. “What do you think is motivating this behavior.”

“Honestly?”

“Of course, honestly,” said Norman.

“I really think he’s operating out of a fear that he could become one of them.”

Norman sat back on the sofa. He turned his head toward the parson. 

“You’re quiet today. What do you think of Frank’s friend?”

“He seems to act like a lot of pastors I know,” the parson observed.

Chattanooga Christmas

His bag seemed packed to the hilt, sitting on the curb beside him where the semi-trucks exited the Quik Trip. The piece of cardboard he held in his hands read “Chatt.”  The parson had seen him as he drove in. And now here he was as the parson and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, exited the facility.

The parson stopped beside him. “Hop in.”

The man rose, took a grip on his bag, and as he was pulling it upward spied Charlie Brown in the back seat. He froze and continued to stare.

“He’s not going to hurt you,” said the parson. “He’s just big; he’s gentle as can be.”

The man studied Charlie Brown intently. He placed his bag on the ground and stepped close to the car. Tentatively, he stuck his hand through the open window and slowly extended it toward Charlie Brown. The faithful canine companion stretched his nose toward the hand, sniffing the digits carefully. After a moment the man seemed satisfied. He turned and retrieved his bag from the curb.

“Where do you want me to put this?” he asked.

“Want to toss it in the trunk?” the parson asked.

“I guess so,” said the man whereupon he walked behind the car.

The parson pulled the lever, disengaging the trunks lock and it popped open. The bag was tossed in; the man closed the lid, walked back to the front passenger door and hopped in.

“Next stop, Chattanooga?” said the parson.

“You’re going all the way to Chattanooga?” the man asked.

“I am,” said the parson.

“But your tag says you’re from the county just up the road.”

“I am, but today I’m heading to Chattanooga.”

The man seemed to study the parson as the car merged with the northbound traffic. 

“What’s your name?” asked the parson.

“I’m Sid,” said the man.

The parson then introduced himself. And the conversation began. Sid was from Florida. He had a job waiting in Chattanooga. He was trying to hitchhike to save money so he’d be able to find a cheap place to live until he could get paid. Sid had two children, both girls. He produced pictures and bragged on each as he held them up for the parson’s inspection. Both he and his wife had been laid off their jobs. She and the children were staying with her mother until Sid could get settled. 

A few miles outside Chattanooga, the parson asked Sid for the address of the place he was headed. Sid pulled his wallet out and extracted a card. He gave the parson the address. The parson pulled the car into a rest area. There, he punched the address into his GPS device and proceeded up the road. Sid was silent.

Following the GPS devices the parson pulled up in front of Sid’s next place of employment in about ten minutes.

“Here we are,” said the parson.

Sid continued to stare. Then he quietly got out of the car and stepped to the trunk. The parson popped the lid. Bag rescued, Sid  stepped to the still open passenger door. He leaned in.

“You weren’t coming to Chattanooga, were you?”

“Well, not until I saw you,” said the parson.

“Why’d you do that?” asked Sid.

“It’s a Christmas present,” said the parson.

“It’s not Christmas yet,” said Sid.

“It is today,” said the parson, for both of us. Hope the job works out Sid.”

Sid’s image was framed by the rearview mirror as the parson drove away. His bag rested on the curb. Sid was still staring at the retreating car.