Questing Parson

Expanded Horizons

The parson and Gina sat on the church's front porch steps. Her mother had called to apologize she'd had car trouble and was running late.

“I don't know if I can handle all the pressure, Parson,” said Gina, an ninth grader who seemed, in the parson's mind, to be a great big bunch of potentiality.

“What kind of pressure is on you?”

“Well, grades for one thing. I didn't realize that high school would be so much harder than before. But it is. Mom says it's because I'm taking advanced placement classes.”

“I would think that would definitely make your classes harder,” the parson said with an inside smile.

“My Aunt Glenda said I ought to drop out of the advanced classes, but, you see, Parson, if I do that it will hurt my chances of getting into a good college. And I've got to get into a good college. I have to get out of this place.”

“You have to get out of this place?”

“I do. Everybody around here goes to a local college or the tech school. Then they marry their boyfriend. They have babies and the next thing you know their babies are going to a local school and the whole thing just starts over again. That's not going to happen to me.”

The parson didn't say anything. Gina didn't seem to need a comment.

“Look, Parson, I don't hate this place, but, you know what I mean. You've lived all over the place. I bet if you went to a nice restaurant you'd know what fork to use when. Do you know what I mean?”

The parson didn't say anything. He nodded.

“Do you remember when Ms. Parson took us on that trip to Mexico? I'll never forget when we stopped in New Orleans. Oh, my gosh! I don't know what the name of that restaurant was but the food was wonderful. And the people, all the different people. There were so many accents. You know what I noticed most of all? What I noticed most of all was the smells. Did you know different towns smell different? I didn't until then. So, anyway, while we were working on building that church building down in Mexico I told Ms. Parson I wanted to see more places and meet more people than my parents and grandparents have.”

“I remember that trip,” said the parson. “Seems to me you and Ms. Parson took an extra day getting home.”

“We did! We did! Do you know why? The reason we took an extra day … oh, you know why; she called you … anyway … she we stopped in Houston. We went shopping there and she took me to another really, really restaurant. Did you know they have streetcars going up and down the street right in the middle of the city? It was fantastic.”

Gina suddenly got quiet. She turned away from the parson. In a moment she looked back. “I'm sorry, Parson. I still miss her.”

The parson put his arm around her and hugged her close. “I do, too, Gina. I do, too.” Releasing his grip on her, he asked, “So, let's get back to the pressure. You're not the dumbest girl on the block, so I don't get the pressure about the classes.”

“Ah, it's not just the classes. Everybody wants me to play soccer. I love soccer; you know that. But, with all the classes, I don't know if I can take time away from my studies to play.”

“I think you should,” the parson said. “You know the competition of the game might give you some relief from the studies; and when you're relaxed you can study better; don't you think?”

“I never thought of it that way,” said Gina. “I'll think about it.”

The parson thought a moment, the said, “Excuse me just a minute, Gina.” He walked around the corner of the building and made a phone call. Returning to sit beside Gina again, he said, “You know, Gina, this summer I'm taking my daughter-in-law, Ms. Parson's daughter, to New York to the theater. I tell you what, if you make it through the year without a nervous breakdown, you can go with us.”

“New York City?”

“New York City.”

“Get out of here! Are you serious?”

“I'm serious. I just asked your mother. She said it's okay.”

“New York City! Oh, my gosh. When are we leaving?”

Learning to Care

 

It was a perfect day. Everyone was divided into those in shorts and t-shirts and those, a bit older with thinner blood, whose upper torso was covered by a sweater or sweat shirt. The breeze was gentle, seductively gentle. It was the day that spring announced, “Let’s party.”

The line stretched from the rear door to the front of the church, in places two or three wide. At least every other human in that line was being led on a leash by a canine intent upon seeing the vet. It was the annual Pet Vaccination and Adoption Day. The Echota Pet Rescue Group was there providing the shots, the tests, the microchips and other for those who needed it. And all across the front yard were the candidates to become a human’s new friend, a wide assortment of dogs waiting in anticipation of someone to love.

She was about eleven, maybe twelve, but I doubt it. Her hair was shoulder length, brunette with a hint of childhood blond. Her jeans had that fashionable slit in each knee, designed to imitate old and faded, but with a crease that hinted of a mother who did not completely understand pre-adolescent fashion.

The mutt was in her lap. His presence interrupted her perpetual habit of pushing strands of hair that would not stay put behind her left ear. The interruption was caused by his insistence on rooting toward her cheek to plant puppy kisses. Every other time, or so, she’d give a soft giggle and make some cooing expression to the creature.

“You like him?” I asked.

“I sure do,” she said.

“Going to adopt him?”

“I think he’s the one. My mom said I could get one more pet, just one. I think this one is going to be it.”

“Have you checked out the others?”

“No, sir,” she smiled, looking up with one eye obscured by the escaping strands of hair. “I didn’t need to look at any others. He’s the one. I’m going to call him Sassy.”

She giggled as the puppy strained upward to lick at the lobe of the ear that had once again been assigned to hold the wandering hair strands. She laid Sassy on his back in her lap and began rubbing his belly. Sassy forgot about licking as he struggled to understand why his leg was jerking.

She looked at the line of people stretching around the church being led by their pets. “It’s nice everyone can come here and get the shots,” she said. “Mom has my other dog inside getting his shorts.” Sassy began chewing on her right index finger. “But you know what? There’s not a lot of people here adopting pets. That’s a shame.”

“You’re adopting one. That’s a start.”

She nodded, thought a moment, and then pointed toward a mongrel in a cage twenty feet away. “I thought about getting that one, but then I saw Sassy. I hope someone gets her.” She stopped her belly rubbing and directed the hair back to its place. As soon as her hand left the belly Sassy headed for her cheek. Another giggle.

“I like your dog,” she said as my faithful canine canine companion, Charlie Brown, decided to push Sassy around with his nose. She grabbed Charlie Brown and hugged him. Sassy took shelter under her arm. “You know,” she said, “if we don’t take care of the animals, we’ll never learn to take care of ourselves.”

 

Youth On the Move

The worship service was proceeding well. Spirits were high; the participants were as cheerful as the springlike weather outside.

The congregation was singing “I Am A Friend of God.” The parson paused in his singing to look over the assembled saints. As usual, the younger ones were gathered in the first few pews directly in front of the pulpit. Memory interrupted the parson's melodic offering. A couple of those younger ones had not been born when he came to this church. Others had come down that first Sunday for his “Children's Sermon.” Now, seven years later, they were still sitting in the same pew, a few of them in college. A few years back the church had changed the title from “Children's Sermon” to “Not Just for Kids” time.

The service proceeded as usual, prayers, songs, scripture, offering. And then when it came time for that “Not Just for Kids” portion the parson noted those particular pews were no longer occupied by the younger ones. They'd moved to the other side of the church.

The parson was puzzled. Surely, he'd remembered his deodrant. The younger ones were gracious enough to move back for that special time. But as soon as it was over they moved back to the other side of the church.

After the service the parson asked some questions. They'd moved, it seemed, because Emma Watson, a recently widowed senior citizen was sitting by herself on that far side. The youth collectively had decided she didn't need to be sitting alone.

It was a rare Sunday, a Sunday when the parson felt he'd really been at worship.

Universal Language

The playground behind the church was a magnet when various church and community activities were happening. Such was the case on the day of the community yard sale, where the congregation allowed anyone to utilize their facilities for the selling of their stuff.

The youth group hosted a car wash in the front parking lot. The women's group were selling baked goods, the men were leading competitions in horse shoes, badminton, and the senior citizens were sitting about under the funeral home tents sharing stories of how it used to be.

The parson was one the playground building relationships with the future members of the Staff-Pastor-Parish relations committee. Among those were three Hispanic kids who were romping about in a game of Follow the Leader. At the current moment the game involved rooting up the slide tube on the stomach in a manner resembling an inch worm. At the top the parson then proceeded dance across the top of the apparatus to the slide on the other side where he then slid down with a laugh. The children followed, with the exception on one child of perhaps four years.

“Come on, honey,” the parson called from the bottom. “You can do it.”

Steve Dexter, one of the more gruff members of the community, watched the parson and his frivolity. Steve was not a member of the parson's church. He belonged to an independent congregation that was two clicks right of radical right.

“Don't know why the hell you're talking to them illegals, Parson,” he offered. “Not a one of them speaks English. Every damn one of them is oblivious to every word you say.”

“Oh, that's really nuts, Steve,” said the parson. “We understand each other completely. A smile and a laugh, Steve, is always mufti-lingual.”

One Unspoiled

The parson was enjoying a rainbow sherbert ice cream cone with a granddaughter and grandson. His attention was focused on the younger of the two who was unknowingly licking up the drip soaked paper napkin that surrounded his afternoon treat. The parson attempted to adjust the napkin and finally gave up and settled for removing it altogether and tucking a fresh one into the collar of the child's shirt.

“You can take a bite of it, you know,” said the parson. The grandson nodded and did so once. He then returned to licking with a smile on his face.

“You're really into spoiling these kids,” said Jason Purdue, who sat across the table from the parson. Jason was a prominent lay person in the area who'd been talking with the parson about starting a shelter for homeless women.

“Ah, that's what grandkid's are for,” the parson said. “Besides I don't count this as spoiling since they didn't ask for the treat.” The parson followed the remark with a generous lick of the black cherry double dip in a sugar cone he held in his hand. His was not dripping like the grandchild. He took a bite often to prohibit that.

Jason turned to watch a young man about eighteen walk into the deli / ice cream establishment. The parson followed the eyes of his friend and noticed the young man, too. He stood at the counter ready to receive the cone the young lady was dipping. In his right hand was a five dollar bill. Under his left arm was a new shoe box with the recognizable swish on it. Ice cream cone received and paid for, change tucked into a pocket he turned and walked out of the establishment, calling out as he left, “Hey, Parson, see you Sunday.”

“Speaking of spoiled,” said Jason, “did you see that shoe box. I bet you those shoes cost $80. This rising generation is spoiled rotten.”

“Maybe not,” said the parson. “Let me tell you a story.”

The parson then told him a story about an eighteen-year-old kid who went on a mission trip to Haiti. Seeing the poverty there he was moved. He returned home in a t-shirt, shorts and flip flops. The rest of his clothing he'd given away.

No Longer Tired

The parson was tired dead tired. “Funny,” he’d told Ms. Parson only a few days before, “I didn’t realize I was old until this year.”

“Maybe you just need a vacation,” she replied.

“Maybe,” he said, But the fatigue was there.

The day had been long. Death seems to never come to a pastor when his time is empty. Crisis intervention counseling is never critical when the pastor has nothing on his plate. And this past week the demands had piled upon events and the events upon one crisis after another.

The parson looked at Ms. Parson’s understanding and playful smile and smiled back. He then put his head upon the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and drifted.

A snort startled the parson to wakefulness. It was with astonishment he realized the snort had in actuality been his snore. He shook his head into consciousness.

Ms. Parson, smiled more. “Enjoy your nap?”

“I wasn’t taking a nap. I was resting my eyes.”

Ms. Parson said not a word. She continued to altar the uniform of the Georgia State Trooper that was spread across her lap.

The parson rose, headed to the kitchen, retrieved a beverage, returned to the sofa and turned his attention to Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson’s quest to become Chief of the LAPD.  As the show ended he realized she didn’t, but also realized he had not the foggiest why she did not.

In frustration, the parson picked up the notebook and placed it on his lap. He clicked on the Mozilla icon and headed to his email box.

The first email was from a former member. “Remember the Tuesday Teens?” he asked at the beginning of the epistle.

The parson did remember the Tuesday Teens. During his tenure as pastor of an inner city church, the social worker at a shelter for homeless women with children had approached him. The regulations of the shelter provided for no real follow up for children over the age of twelve whose mother had left the shelter. She asked if the parson’s church could develop some program.

The parson called on his Associate Pastor, Jan. She organized the group of children into what became known as the Tuesday Teens.  Every Tuesday when school was over they headed by the rapid rail system on tickets provided by the city to the parson’s church. There they engaged in self-esteem activities, in sharing their frustrations, in their struggle to keep their families together, and in a fellowship with Jan and the parson.

Of course, as is the case with such programs, the bishop in his wisdom decided Jan needed her own church and appointed her to a well-deserved status as senior pastor of another congregation. It was then the parson called upon his daughter to oversee the program. She commuted into the inner city every Tuesday to continue what Jan had started.

When the parson retired and moved, the program fell victim to differing pastoral priorities and vanished. Often over the years the parson had wondered about those kids.

Yes, indeed, the parson remembered the Tuesday Teens. The email continued:

“So, Parson, you may or may not know that I was laid off,” said the man who had driven those teens home in the church van every Tuesday. “And when I found myself unemployed I decided to go to school and get another advanced degree. Well imagine my surprise when I felt a tap on my shoulder the other day and turned to see David standing there with his big smile. We had a good visit and are going to see each other often at the school.

“David sends his regards. He also wants you to know that his brother, Jim, is doing really well. He graduated from a technical school and has started his own company that, despite the economy, is doing pretty good. And Peter, his other brother, is living further south and has a Masters degree.

“Thought you’d want to know, Parson, the Tuesday Teens have left the problems of their former environment and created a much better one in which each lives.

“By the way, Parson, we’re working of a date, real soon, when the Tuesday Teens will come to see you.”

“The parson powered off the notebook. He sat it on the coffee table.

“You really are tired,” Ms. Parson repeated.

The parson remembered the day he conducted the funeral for the brother of those three who was the victim of a gang shootout. He remembered his pleading they not retaliate, the prayers for them and finally with them. He forced down the lump in his throat and replied, “Not anymore. Not anymore.”

A Personal Ministry

The parson had been absconded in his office all day concentrating on transferring blog posts from this site to the new one that would go up soon. Bleary eyed from the monotony of the endeavor he headed to the church Fellowship Hall in pursuit of the source of the tantalizing aroma of the Monday Soup Supper’s main entrée.

Scooping a generous portion into the generous plastic bowls that had been donated by a local restaurant, he then loaded up the edge of the bowl with two large homemade biscuits and then placed on a small saucer like plastic plate a large portion of the cherry/pineapple upside down cake Ms. Parson had invented that afternoon.

The parson was almost to the bottom of his second bowl when Madison, one of the church youth and a junior in high school took a seat at his table. Soon she was joined by her mother who was there assisting Ms. Parson in today’s preparation.

“Madison,” you’ve got twenty stops tonight so you need to get going soon. “Here’s the list of people to take the Soup Supper to.”

Madison unfolded the list of folks she was to deliver. She scanned the paper. Her forehead wrinkled again. The then scanned it a second time, this time with her finger tracing down the list of people. She looked up at her mother and exclaimed, “You guys have made a mistake,” she said, “Ms. Edna is not on this list.”

“Ms. Edna is on Jerome’s list,” countered her mother.

The parson, having finished the second bowl of soup and having devoured a second helping of pineapple/cherry upside down cake now pushed the refuse before him to the side and concentrated his attention on the conversation before him. Certainly, Madison was no longer aware of his presence as she leaned forward in what the parson suspected might be a budding generational dispute.

“Ms. Edna is on Jerome’s list???” Madison squealed in a barely suppressed tone. “Ms. Edna’s on Jerome’s list. Ms. Edna cannot be on Jerome’s list. I deliver to Ms. Edna.”

“Madison,” said her mother in a motherly tone that resembling the tone the parson had often heard as his daughter tried to match wits with his unmatchable granddaughters, “it doesn’t matter who is on whose list.”

Suddenly, Madison recognized the parson’s presence at the table. She held her arms out in a “Can you believe this?” movement. Her eyes zeroed in on the parson’s and she pleaded. “Will you please talk to my mother? Would you explain that this is not a delivery service I do, that this is a ministry?”

The parson looked at Madison’s mother and said, “Julie, this is a ministry.”

Madison slapped the table with her palm. “It’s not time to be funny, Parson. I need your help here. Look, if Jerome gets Edna on his list he will go up to the Senior Citizen Village and he’ll deliver the meal to her. That’s what he’ll do. He won’t sit down and talk to her. She doesn’t really need the food as much as she needs to have someone to talk to. Don’t you guys understand that? Jerome will tell her he has a lot of people to deliver to, and we do, but that’s all Jerome does. Jerome gives her some soup.”

“Madison,” said her mother, “that’s what we do. We deliver food to the homebound. We make contact with them. We let them know we care.”

Madison leaned across the table and gave her mother a look that only a very talented young woman with a determination that matched her mother could express. “Oh great!” she said. “Hi Edna, we want you to know we care, so here’s some soup! That’s our definition of caring? I don’t think so. Do you even listen to his sermons?” Madison didn’t look toward the parson as she pointed her finger in his direction while continuing her intense gaze at her mother.

“Madison, you’re being ridiculous.”

“No, Mom, no,” she said. “I am not being ridiculous. Last month I went to Ms. Edna’s house and she was sitting there in her rocking chair all alone, and when I put the soup supper in her kitchen and came back into her living room she started telling me how much it meant to her that I came by every Monday. She started telling me that, Mom, and then she started telling me how much it meant to her that somebody my age would take the time to sit with her and to hear her talk, that she didn’t have anyone to do that anymore. And pretty soon, Mom, she was crying because she said she appreciated me so much because she’d outlived most of her relatives and it was nice to have me to talk to . And then I started crying and then we were hugging each other. So, Jerome is not going to take supper to Ms. Edna, damn it! She is my ministry and she is dependent on me!”

The parson watched the tear run down her right cheek and splash on her REI Fleece Jacket. As he pushed his chair back, Madison was sobbing. “You can’t let Jerome take supper to Ms. Edna, Mom. She doesn’t really want this stupid supper. She just wants me to sit with her and listen. And I can do that, Mom, you may not believe it but I can listen to Ms. Edna really good.”

The parson left the table and walked to the end of the room. “Hi Jerome,” he said. “Look, how about we take Ms. Edna off your list. Madison will take hers and you can take Henry Woodall his supper. Sounds like a plan?”

Jerome replied, “Sounds like a plan, Parson.” Then he turned back to his texting.

The parson headed back across the room to deliver the good news to the Very Reverend Madison.

First Things First

The parson stopped at the Quik Trip, America’s Number One Convenience Store stop, to indulge himself a cup of cappuccino following a morning with the CEO of a computer geek firm. The parson was seeking advice on an internet café his church was setting up. The project would allow indigent students from the high school just up the street to use the internet for school work, and, additionally, allow the poor unemployed to apply for jobs online.

He was exiting the store when Winston Mansfield approached the door to enter.

“Morning, Parson,” said Winston, “I’m glad I to see you. I’d mentioned to Bertha last night I wanted to talk to you.”

“What’s up?” asked the parson, as he stepped out of the way of the door and into some shade.

Winston followed and said, “Well, I know this is kind of delicate, but we need to kind of standardize things with the youth. I know you want us to involve more people in the workings of the ministry, but Sunday night we had almost thirty kids there.”

“That’s great,” said the parson.

“Not quite,” said Winston. “We had thirty kids but Eleanor Rollins, that lady who joined recently, was in charge of furnishing the meal.”

“That’s great, too,” said the parson.

“It’s not great when we didn’t have enough food.”

“Did anybody tell Eleanor how many kids come?”

“I don’t know. It seems to me we need people involved that know these things without the youth workers having to guide them.”

“How many members do we have in the church, Winston?” the parson asked.

“I don’t know, Parson. I guess we have a little over a hundred on the rolls. What’s your point?”

“My point, Winston, is that two things happened last night. One was you ran short of food. The second was a number equivalent to over one-third of the church showed up at the youth meeting. And instead of celebrating the one you’re bitching about the unimportant happening.”

Some Soup; Some Talk

The youth in our church deliver a meal each Monday evening to the homebound in our church and community. We call it Soup Supper Monday, and often the meal is a bit more than soup.

One night, the kids entered a Senior Citizen community and by mistake delivered the meal to a man and woman not on their list. They just made a mistake. And when the man pointed this out to them, someone in the group said, “Maybe so, but God doesn’t make mistakes so this meal must be for you.”

For months the kids delivered the meal. And as time progressed they realized the man was in bad health. They brought the meals and sat and talked to the man.

The phone rang at the church recently. It was the woman. She called to let us know her husband had died. She said we didn’t need to bring the meals to them any longer. But she wanted the kids to know how much their visits had meant to her husband.

The young people ignored her. They carry the meal to her every Monday, and while she eats they sit and talk with her.

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.”