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.”
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