Questing Parson

They Don't Come For the Preaching

The parson was walking out of the courthouse. He'd been talking with the Chairman of the County Commission to get his support for an Emergency Shelter for Single Women with Children. The meeting had turned out as the parson expected. The Chairman had promised his unconditional support as soon as the parson raised the needed funds.

No more than ten feet outside the offices of the Commissioners, Fred Eberhardt called out to the parson.

“Hey, Parson, you down here paying taxes, too.

Fred was a unique person in the parson's denomination. He was young, really young. Fred was only twenty-six years of age. Not many that young completed college, seminary, and jumped through all the hoops of the Board of Ministry and were serving their first appointment. Fred was unique in another aspect, also. Fred's first appointment had been in the middle of the year. That is, Fred was appointed by the bishop to his first church on January 1st, whereas most appointments in that episcopal area were made effective on the third Thursday of June. As of the day before this Fred had led the worship service for the 15th time.

“Hello, Fred,” said the parson. “No, actually I'm here for a meeting. How are things going with you?”

Fred's eyes widened, his demeanor took on a burst of energy. “Great, Parson, really great. I mean things are really great. You know,” he said with an obvious tone of pride, “I think things are really turning a corner at the church.”

“That's good to hear, Fred,” the parson replied. “How was your Easter service?”

“It was terrific, Parson, absolutely terrific. Oh my goodness, we almost had to put chairs in the aisles. The place was packed. I think the word must be getting out about my preaching.”

The parson smiled, thought a minute and was about to reply when Fred's cell phone rang.

Fred looked down at the phone's screen and said, “Excuse me, Parson, I need to take this.”

The parson waited. When Fred completed his call he informed the parson with apologies he needed to leave to take care of a matter.

The parson watched him walk down the courthouse steps relieved he didn't have to explain to Fred that folks don't come to the Easter service because of the preaching. If they did, in Fred's case, they'd have been there in February. The parson said a prayer that Fred would be able to handle Sunday-after-Easter attendance phenomenon.

 

A Visit To the Farm

The parson walked to his car. It had been an interesting visit.

Joe had entered the senior facility almost a year ago. His dementia was getting progressively worse and his wife couldn't provide adequately for him. The decision had been painful, but it had been the best one. Joe's wife was, for the first time in almost a decade, able to live without stress, worry, and fear. At first, she visited Joe seven days a week, staying almost every day. Over the course of the year, as his condition grew worse, she settled into a routine of Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On the other days she reclaimed her life by gardening, spending time with grandchildren, and visiting the home bound members of the church.

This particular Monday, she'd not been able to visit Joe. She jumped off a small wall in the yard and sprung her ankle. The parson had volunteered to make her visit for her.

“Do I know you?” Joe had asked as the parson walked into his room.

“You do, Joe. I'm your pastor.”

Joe squinted his eyes. “You're my pastor?”

“I am?”

Joe squinted some more. “How long have you been my pastor.”

“About eight years, Joe.”

“Hmmm,” he still squinted. “You'd think they'd have run you off by now.”

“I'm still hanging around, Joe. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“You don't need my permission,” said Joe.

The parson sat. There was a moment of silence. Joe turned to stare out the window.

“What have you been doing lately, Joe?”

“I've been pondering when to harvest the crops,” Joe said. “Kind of hard to figure out the weather. I'm thinking maybe next week I should start.”

The parson waited a moment. He thought about the time he'd been in Clinical Pastoral Education training. In those days “reality therapy” had been the thing. The parson wasn't much on reality.

“What crops do you have in this year?”

“Corn, got about ten acres of corn. It's that hybrid kind. Supposed to be really resistant. Don't know what got into me but I planted a huge field of watermelons. I think we got just about enough rain. They should be sweet, I mean reaaalll sweet. And I've got the usual, beans, okra, tomatoes. I'm planning to have a little stall up by the strip mall and sell a good bit of the produce. Should bring in a little nest egg for the rest of the year.”

“Sounds like you've been busy.”

“I have. Hey, you wanna see the crops?” Joe rose and headed toward the door while motioning the parson to follow him.

The parson got up from his chair and began to follow. “Where are we going?” the parson asked.

By now they were even with the nurses' station. Joe pointed out the large picture window in the waiting area. “Out there; the farm.”

The parson looked to the nurse. “Just stay in the garden, Parson,” she said. “Don't take him off the property.”

The parson followed Joe. They walked around the circular path of the flower garden now showing its winter drab. “Look at this corn,” Joe said. “Have you ever seen corn stalks this tall. I mean this is going to be a bumper crop.”

They continued walking around the circular path. Joe pointed out all the other parts of his farm, where each vegetable was planted, where the hogs were kept, and the milk cows. The walk lasted the better part of an hour. Finally, the parson suggested they go back inside. Joe agreed and turned toward the door. The parson followed him through the little waiting room, past the nurses' desk, down the hall and into his room.

Joe walked over to the window. He put his hands on the sill and looked out intently. Then he turned his head to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks for walking with me, Parson.”

The parson, startled, started to respond but Joe continued. “I'm not ever going back to the farm, am I?”

The parson sat in the chair. “No, Joe, I don't think you are. I'm sorry.”

Joe turned from the window and sat opposite the parson. He looked at the paper on the side table, picked it up and seemed to be studying one of the articles. A good ten minutes passed with no words spoken. Then Joe folded the paper, placed it back on the table, looked at the parson and said, “Do I know you?”

Evangelist For A Different Church

“I'm glad I ran into you, Parson,” said Ginny Carter. “There's something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What's that?” asked the parson as he placed the fresh asparagus he'd just taken from the produce shelf.

“Well, I'd like to talk privately,” said Ginny.

“We're in the middle of a grocery store,” said the parson.

“Maybe we could go over there by the deli where they have those tables. We could have privacy there.”

The parson quickly weighed his schedule for the day, his desire to talk or not to talk with Ginny, his knowing that Ginny would not be talking about the weather but what was a crisis in her mind. But then again she did work tirelessly in the church.

“Okay, Ginny, let's go over there. How about I get you a sandwich?”

“No, thank you. Let's just talk.”

The parson looked longingly at the club sandwich displayed on the deli counter, but he relented and joined Ginny at a table near the window.

“So, what's up, Ginny?” asked the parson.

“Okay, Parson, I'm going to get straight to it. I was told by someone ...”

The parson interrupted, “Does Someone have a last name?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ginny, don't be talking about 'someone'. I can't deal with 'someone' but I can deal with real people.”

Ginny screwed her lips up. She paused for a moment. “Okay, I was told by Sally Reynolds that you told Melissa Garner you'd help her find another church.”

“I did,” said the parson. “Sally is right. But what I really said was I'd help them find a church that fit their needs.”

Ginny's mouth opened. She stared at the parson. It was a good thirty seconds before she spoke. “I can't believe my pastor would suggest to a member of the church that he'd help them find another church.”

“Melissa is not a member of our church,” said the parson.

“Well, technically that's right. But she's been attending almost every Sunday for several months.”

“She has,” said the parson.

“Well, don't you think she would become a member soon?”

“No, I don't.”

“Why wouldn't she want to become a member?”

“Ginny,” said the parson leaning closer across the table. “Think about last Sunday. Picture Ginny in the Sunday School class. You were there. Tell me what you see.”

“Are you serious?”

“I'm serious. What do you see in your mind's eye when you picture last Sunday and Melissa in your class?”

“Okay, well, she had on this really nice plaid-like skirt and a – well, to be honest that skirt might have been a little short, but, let's see – she had a pale yellow blouse on.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean, 'What else'?”

“Where was she sitting?”

“She was sitting kind of away from the others, kinda in the back. That fellow she's dating was on her right. And, let's see. Oh, she had the toddler in her lap and was playing with her to keep her quiet.”

“What about her boyfriend?”

“Okay, he was dressed in blue slacks and an oxford blue button down shirt. And he, no, he didn't have a tie.”

“What else about him?”

“Okay, I got it. He had the baby in his arms.”

“Do you see anything wrong with the picture you've described, Ginny?”

“Wrong? No. I think it's sweet for them to be there with those precious children.”

The parson sat back in his chair. “Ginny, do you remember the last two Council on Ministry meetings?”

“Well, I guess. What about them?”

“Do you remember me insisting that we couldn't wait for young adults with children to show up and not be ready for them in advance. Do you remember me telling you we need a nursery and a pre-school Sunday School class? Do you remember me telling you that even if no one who fit that description was there one Sunday we need to be prepared if they showed up the next Sunday?”

“Okay, Parson, I sorta remember that.”

The parson smiled, “Guess what, Ginny. They showed up. They showed up and they can't enjoy attending our church because we didn't prepare for them. So they have to sit there with their kids on their knees. And because they're sitting there with their knees filled with squirming kids we've effectively sent them a message.”

“You're getting a little hostile, Parson.”

“Do you think so?”

“Well, look I don't think that excuses you telling them you'd find them a church.”

“I don't need an excuse, Ginny. It's my moral obligation, my fidelity to my vows, to be sure that she and her significant other and, especially, the children are engaged in a vital church that prepares those children to live a Christian life in the future.”

“I've never known a pastor to tell people who attend our church they should go somewhere else.”

“Actually, Ginny, she came to me and we talked about it. I suggested she was right, that a church should provide a ministry to her children.”

“So, you're going to help them find another church?”

“I'm going to help them find a church that's prepared to minister to her children as well as the two of them. I'm still praying that church may be the one they already attend. But the clock's ticking, Ginny. The clock's ticking. So, Ginny, it's up to you guys.”

Ginny leaned forward. She whispered, 'Sometimes you really piss me off.”

“Let's hope so, Ginny. Let's hope so.”

Shall We Talk?

The parson sat in his favorite eating spot. Before him was a dish that once contained two eggs over easy, hash browns, two sausage links and two crisp strips of bacon. The only thing left was a small piece of the toast. To the side of the plate was a Kindle from which the parson was reading Sam Harris' new book, The Moral Landscape, How Science Can Determine Human Values. In the parson's hand was one of the restaurant's distinctive mugs now half-full of decaf.

Alex Jackson, the pastor of a fundamental church, and, to the dismay of other pastors, a close friend of the parson walked over to the parson's table.

“What's up, Parson?” asked Alex.

“Nothing much, Alex. Sit down.” The parson powered his Kindle off. “How about some coffee?”

“Not this morning, Parson,” said Alex. “I'm trying to cut down.”

“What are you doing out this early, Alex?” the parson asked.

“I'm heading over to the hospital. Sylvia's aunt is having a procedure today. It's not serious, just an outpatient thing. But Sylvia wanted me to stop by. So, since I want a nice supper tonight I'm going over there.”

The two talked of several things, mutual friends, the new football season, grandchildren. The parson had just gotten his mug refilled when Alex asked, “So, you watched the President's speech last night?”

The parson immediately shifted to on edge. His and Alex political views were miles apart. He didn't want to get into a verbal sparring match this morning.

“I did, Alex. I did.”

“What did you think about it?”

“Well, I thought it was well delivered and forceful. There's a lot there to challenge everyone.”

“I don't think it's going to be a challenge,” said Alex.

“You don't? Why not?”

“Because nothing will come of that speech. I mean, he gave the speech, but that's all. There's going to be no talking about this. There's going to be no negotiations. What good is to be gained by negotiations. He's not right. He's out of line with the rest of the country. Why should we talk to him?”

The parson finished his coffee. He put the cup down, took some money from his wallet and placed it on the table for the server. He stood, “Alex, you're going to have to excuse me. I've got an appointment.”

The two walked to the door together. On the way to their vehicles, Alex asked, “So, you coming to the meeting tonight.”

“What meeting?”

“You know, the get-together to discuss how the different churches in the area can cooperate.”

The parson smiled to himself. “Naw, Alex,” he said, “I don't think I'm coming.”

“Why not?”

“What's the point. I'm right and all the rest of you are wrong.”

Alex stopped walking. “You're pulling my leg, right?”

The parson now smiled openly. “Think about it, Alex. Think about it.”

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My Favorite Baptist Preacher

Is Bill Moyers optimistic?
58 minutes but well worth it. Correct that! It's more than well worth it, it's a vital listen. 

About That Report

Dear Church Superior:

Thank you so much for your most flattering correspondence of recent date in which you priased our little rural church for having paid 100% of our denominational askings and for having submitted our church's annual report in a timely fashion. We are deeply grateful that you singled us out as being an exemplary church. But once again, I fear, I am compelled to write this addendum to the required report.

About that report: On my part, the first section. that supposedly referred to the pastoral aspects of our church life, contained fifty-seven questions. And on the portions of the report my treasurer compiled and provided the input there occupied many more questions.

Once again this year, I point out that the first portion, mine, was centered on one question: How many? Now, as you were so generous in mentioning in your epistle, that figure for our little country church was positive. We're actually growing. We are delighted you noticed.

I would like to respectfully point out, once again, that the number of persons who joined our congregation during the preceeding year has nothing to do with the kind of church I serve.

There was no place for me to report that once a week our youth transport meals to the homebound and sick in our community, that this is a ministry they started and continue and are very possessive of. There was no place to tell you how those homebound folks anxiously await the appearance of those young people in their lives each week. Nor was there a place to inform you that when elderly spouses passed it was the youth who'd delivered those meals who sat with the surviving partner, holding their hand and crying mutual tears of sorrow. There was no line on which to report this.

You know, there wasn't a place to report the soup kitchen that is open each week, where the haves and the have nots come and sit down to share a meal together. It's a real live version of that liturgy we speak so frequently in the church, “The bread we break is a sharing in the body of Christ …. The cup over which we give thanks is a sharing in the blood of Christ.” But this time it's not a ritual spoken by rote in the sanctuary but a real live event in the lives of the divergent children of God. Too bad that little interaction couldn't find a slot in the report.

Are you aware that every indigent child in this county received from this little church the weekend before school started last year a book bag. In the book bag were grade appropriate supplies for the year as well as a new set of clothes. Please note, they were new clothes, not hand-me-downs, and they were individually selected for each child. And I must add, after receiving the above these kids, especially the girls, get a trip to to a hair stylist. For many of them it's the first time they've had new clothes or had someone other than mom cut their hair. Didn't find a place to report that either.

I kept looking for a place on the report to mention that this little church bears the expense for maintaining a transitional house for a single mom with children, a program that not only houses but provides a professional social worker to work with the family to develop survival skills in surviving and not falling back into homelessness, that these women are given an education, and that, so far, we're running a success rate over 90%. Oh, we are also the impetus and partial supporter of two additional transitional houses. Golly gee, wouldn't it be something if we could have reported that.

I didn't find a place to report the missionary in Peru for which this church is the largest single supporter. I didn't find a line to inform you of the hundreds of people a year we provide direct assistance to. There was no line on which to mention this little church provides vet clinics twice a year where families below the poverty line can bring their pets for their shots and such at a ridiculously reduced price. There was no section to mention the internet cafe we provide for indigent children to come and do their homework or for the unemployed to submit employment applications online. Didn't get to mention the members of our church who packed a backpack, rolled up their sleeves, and hauled their ass down to Haiti right after the earthquake.

I can think of a couple dozen other vital ministries of this congregation that have no place to be reported. But allow me to mention just one more.

There was no place on that report to tell you how, when this country parson's wife died, these peope gathered their pastor more firmly into their hearts, they wrapped their love and concern around him, they held him to their congregational brest and nursed him on his way to healing. And now almost two months from that tragic event they continue to hold him and care for him and nudge him along the path to wholeness. Too bad there's no place to report that because I'm not the only one they have done this for.

Now, please know that I am most grateful for you placing the spotlight on us as being the church we are, according to what was reported on that six page, single spaced, report. But also realize Ms. Parson is no longer here to temper my responses via this writing. So you'll understand my bluntness when I say that ridiculous report my treasurer and I fill out each year, you know – the one that only asks how many and how much, the one you're proud of because we got a passel of new members and increased the value of our property, doesn't tell you shit about the powerful ministry of this church. And that's tragic.

Maybe next year?

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.”

 

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.

Encountering Members at the Kroger

The parson headed into the Kroger, grocery list in hand, to purchase the goodies for the evening’s consumption. He hesitated where the grocery carts gather to ponder if he needed the large one or could get by with the smaller. Jimmy Swartz entered the store and upon seeing the parson began a litany.

“Hello, Parson. It’s good to see you. Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t get to church last Sunday. Tell you the truth I was catching up on sleep. Little Greg was sick Thursday and Friday and kept me up half the night. That kid can wear you out. I’ll try and be there Sunday,” he added as he scampered away.

The parson headed toward the meat section to peruse the possibilities for the evening meal. While the parson might fall short of being described as “handsome,” his culinary skills utilized each evening kept Ms. Parson interested in keeping him around. Two excellent fillets of salmon were marked “Manager’s Special.” The parson placed them in the cart and headed to the produce section as, in his head, he planned out a meal centering on grilled salmon with pineapple, mango and strawberry salsa. He had a mango in his hand testing its ripeness when Louise Witherford greeted him.

“Hi, Parson,” said Louise, “hey, I enjoyed the sermon Sunday. Wait, let me rephrase that. I thought the sermon was challenging. I heard you ask Gordon Palmer which part he enjoyed most a couple of Sundays ago.”

“What are you doing here this time of day?” asked the parson. “I thought you’d be home in bed.” Louise worked the night shift at the hospital. When she attended church every Sunday it was on her way home from work.

Louise headed toward the checkout and home for some sleep. The parson moved over to the other side of the produce area to examine the strawberries.

“Parson, it’s so good to see you. Gracious, it’s been weeks. I can’t believe I haven’t gotten to church in such a long time. But, well, you know I’m getting up in age now. Last Sunday I could barely get these old knees to work. Glory, who would have thought getting into your seventies would slow a person down so much.”

The parson watched her walk away, wondering if he should tell her about the motorized shopping carts. He put the mango into the cart beside the strawberries, and contemplated what other vegetable might go with the meal. As he walked down the aisle toward some canned pineapple, he came upon Linda Garner, whose father attended his church.

“Parson,” said Linda, “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve wanted to tell you for the longest time that Dad really appreciates the multi-media at the church. When you guys said you were going to put it in I didn’t know what he’d think, but with his hearing going bad he’s able to keep up much better now. Who would have thought a ninety-three year old would get such a kick out of that.”

The parson talked with Linda a bit longer, both sharing stories of her father and his dedication to being at the church every Sunday no matter what. She promised that someday soon she’d come and visit with her dad.

The parson was headed toward the checkout counter when Elmer Cunningham hailed him.

“Parson, how are you?”

“Great, Elmer,” said the parson. “How about you?”

“Doing well, Parson. We missed you at the family reunion last Sunday. Ellen did invite you to drop by after church, didn’t she?”

The parson acknowledged he’d been invited. And he explained he had some other things on the calendar which prohibited him dropping by for lunch after church.

“Well, too bad. Ellen laid out a feast. We weren’t at church, of course, because we were preparing, but we shared with the whole family the good work the church is doing.”

The parson talked with Elmer a bit longer. He then headed to the checkout and then his car. As he was placing his shopping cart in its corral, he noticed Wanda and Alvin Brooks walking across the parking lot. He didn’t hail them as they were almost on the opposite side of the lot. But he couldn’t help but remember they’d reserved the fellowship hall at the church for their family reunion dinner in order for everyone to attend the services.

That night, as Ms. Parson marveled at the culinary talent of the man she’d married, she asked, “So, how was your day?”

“Oh it was typical. I ran into several members. Every one of them had something to share about the church.

Moving the Scammer to Another Parish

The parson made his way down the interstate, heading for the Quik Trip, America’s best gas and convenience store. About two miles from the exit he passed a RV camper of the vintage variety. It was from the early 1980s, the kind where a pickup was modified to accommodate the camper. It was towing an economy sedan from about the same year.

The parson quickly moved ahead and exited. He pulled into the Quik Trip and headed for the cappuccino dispensers. He no sooner had his cup filled than Eugene Jones entered the store. The two had agreed to meet here and ride to a meeting together. The parson waited for Eugene to get a cup of refreshment for himself and headed toward the cashier. Halfway there his attention was captured by someone walking in. The parson stared, knowing the man looked familiar. Then it hit him; he was the fellow driving the old camper.

The parson paid and he and Eugene departed to head toward their meeting. In the car, the parson asked, “Eugene, I need to run by the post office to mail some letters before we go.”

Eugene nodded as the parson pointed his car back toward the interstate. He crossed over on the bridge and headed toward the post office about a mile ahead. He made a quick trip around the parking lot and dropped the letters into the outside receptacle. Now the car was pointed back toward the interstate again. One hundred yards before the interstate, the parson saw the camper again.

It was parked in the parking lot of a defunct business, with the nose pointed toward the highway. The man stood outside beside the front left fender next to a hand painted sign which leaned against the wheel and read, “Stranded. Will work for food and/or gas.”

The parson pulled in, got out of the car and approached the man. Eugene followed.

“What happened?” the parson asked.

“Oh, thanks for stopping,” he said. “I’m heading home in Florida and I realized I have lost my wallet. I guess I lost it at my last stop up in Tennessee. So, I’m stranded here. This is a little embarrassing. Look do you know anywhere I could get some work for some gas and food?”

The parson was taking in the Quik Trip cup and sausage biscuit wrapping on the fender as the man spoke.

“Tell you what, partner,” said the parson. “I’ve got a Quik Trip gift card here. You know where the Quik Trip is?”

“Ah, I think so. Isn’t it on the other side of the expressway?”

“Right,” said the parson. “I’ll let you have it. You can get some gas and food there.”

“Thanks much,” said the man as he took the card from the parson.

Back in the car, Eugene let go on the parson. “Parson, are you out of your mind. You saw that guy come into the QT. There’s no way he had time to make that sign before we got to him here. He had that sign already made.”

“I know,” said the parson. “But I know a little about these scammers. He will move on now to a better another place. And, if he’s even a little bit down on his luck, I think there was just enough money on that card to get him to your county.”

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