Questing Parson

The Empty Feeling

I just overheard her say to the person on the phone, “No, everything’s fine. We’re just sitting here waiting.”

She’s not being entirely truthful. Putting a good face on a bad situation is the polite way Southern women behave. She has other Southern feminine characteristics. Even in this situation, with her husband in surgery, the result of his internal organs shutting down, her makeup is expertly applied, every strand of her red hair in place. You know how it is in that particular culture – one does what one must do with dignity and proper decorum.

The waiting room is quiet except for her polite, extended, conversation with the person on the other end of the phone line, who should know better. But the quiet is pregnant with tension. It’s been three hours now, three long hours of waiting and worry, and waiting and anxiety, and waiting and waiting.

The well-meaning one who called has finally released her from his need to let her know he’s concerned. There’s silence for a few moments. The ring of the waiting room phone startles in her seat like an electrical jolt, betraying her projection of calm and assurance. She grabs the phone before it can sound a second ring. Listening quietly for a moment, she then cups her palm over the mouthpiece and says, “Is anyone with the Brannon family here?” No one responds. Politely she tells the caller no one is here. She offers to take a message in case they come in. She pulls a pen from her purse along with a small pad of paper and writes down the caller’s message. “You’re welcome,” precedes hanging up the phone. She sighs and sits deep into her seat, folding the paper neatly and placing it in the side pocket of her handbag..

Another family member arrives, her sister-in-law. They hug. She directs her in-law to an empty seat. Then she introduces me.

Silence. She stares at the wall.

“Have you heard anything from the doctor?” the in-law asks.

“No, nothing so far, but they said it would be a while.”

Silence.

“Oh, you should have heard his sermon Sunday. It was really good. You ought to come and visit the church sometime.” And then, much to my amazement, she relates the main points and theme of the sermon.”

“Well, Jeff and I keep saying we’re coming but you know how it is once you get out of the habit.”

Silence.

Another family walks in. “Are you the Brannon’s?” she asks. They say they are. She rises from the sofa and walks over to them with the folded paper in her hand. They talk a moment as she relates whatever was relayed to her. They are obviously grateful. I hear her say, “We’ll keep her in our prayers.”

She returns to the sofa.

Silence.

“Whatever happened to the Ryder family?” asks her sister-in-law. “Do you folks ever see them any more?”

She says they do. They talk for a good five or six minutes about the Ryder’s children, laughing lightly at remembered incidents, occasionally relating the person of the even to the life of her husband fighting for his life in the surgery.

Silence.

“I’m going to see about getting something from the vending machine. Do you want anything?” asks the sister-in-law.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

The sister-in-law leaves. She stares at the wall. And then, out of the blue, she leans in toward me and says softly, “The Brannon family has three small children. The wife is in surgery for a heart problem. It came on very suddenly. They are so worried. When you get back would you mind asking the prayer chain to remember them to the Lord?”

I say I will, marveling at her consideration.

Silence

More silence.

The phone rings. She jumps. She answers. She listens. “Thank you,” she says. She informs me that the caller was the nurse in the surgical room. The operation is taking a little longer than they anticipated. The doctor will call when he’s finished.

Silence

The sister-in-law returns. She’s given the information.

Silence

The phone rings. This time there’s an audible intake of breath. I reach for the phone to answer for her, but she raises her hand in an “it’s okay” gesture and answers. She listens. She turns and informs the Brannon family the call is for them. They come over. She rises and offers her seat. As the family member talks she rises. I rise with her. “Do you want to take a walk?”

She says she does and informs here sister-in-law we’re going downstairs a moment. She politely asks her to remain in case the doctor calls. We ride down in silence. We stop in the cafeteria and by a cup of coffee. Outside we sip our coffee and walk through the hospital gardens. One, then two, trips around the blooming roses and the gurgling fountain, and she sits. She looks at me, “It’s so hard to keep my composure.”

“I know,” I say. “And you don’t have to do that all the time.”

There’s no response. I was raised in the shadow of my Southern grandmother. I realize her upbringing requires composure. The foolishness of my suggestion is acknowledged by the gentle pat of her hand on my forearm.

We sit on a garden bench and finish our coffee.

“I guess we should get back upstairs. We shouldn’t leave her alone in the waiting room.”

We go back upstairs. We’re informed there’s been no word.

Silence. More silence.

The wait was a bit over seven hours. Through it all her composure remained intact. Her hair remained in place. Her gestures of concern for the other family remained apparent. The phone call for her never came. Instead, the doctor walked into the room. He sat down beside her with a worried look on his face. The operation was over but there had been far more extensive damage than they realized. It was going to be touch-and-go for a while. In the meantime her husband would be in CCU.

She politely thanked the doctor. Then she asked when she could see her husband. The doctor said it would be a few hours.

Silence. Her eyes were watery but no tears flowed.

There was a board meeting at the church. It was a long drive back. I had to leave. I told her so.

“Thank you for all you’ve done,” she said.

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” I replied.

“You were here,” she whispered.

Walking to my car I encountered her doctor. He said to me, “She’s probably going to need you soon.”

On the way to the church I passed her house. It’s a picture postcard from Southern Living. One could eat off the floors; her roses would put the professional gardeners of the hospital to shame. I could visualize the interior, its neatness, the dust free surfaces, the daily vacuumed carpets, the smell of mint nestled in the bottle on the kitchen window sill.

I knew what was most likely was coming for her. It came for me four years ago. That house will be empty, emptier than ever it has been. Her footsteps will echo on the tile kitchen floor. The garden care will be mechanical. The blooms will be just blooms. The carefully prepared meals will be a means of sustenance and not a joy of preparation.

I know what she’s going to be going through. You’d think that being able to say, “I know exactly how you feel,” would give me clue as to how to minister. It doesn’t. I know exactly how she feels.

She feels empty. I feel empty, too.

Not Until the Scarring

Tim Weseman, in his delightful book, Seasons Under the Son, (1) tells the wonderful story of the time he and his son planted a fruit tree. His wife brought a small apple tree home from the garden store. The roots were wrapped tightly in the traditional burlap. The tree did not reach Tim’s head. But his wife had decided she wanted to pick apples from her own tree. Tim was warned with words and a particular look his wife could project not to put off this designated chore.

Tim used this as an opportunity to fellowship with his young son. Together they laid pick and shovel in the wheelbarrow, one on each side of the sapling. Out to the wife’s chosen spot they proceeded. The task began. Sweat rolled; Tim grunted; his son scampered about with his toy hoe and shovel, moving a bit of dirt here and a bit more there. The depression in the ground slowly, under the influence of their labor, transformed itself into a hole.

More grunts preceded the tree’s removal from the wheelbarrow. More sweat dropped as he, along with his son’s struggling efforts, wrestled the tree into the freshly excavated home. Panting, they moved it around until the trunk was at right angle to the ground. The burlap then was loosened. Empty spaces were filled and tapped down. The lawn hose was pulled out, the water was turned on. Tim’s son, alone, generously watered the tree.

After shoveling the extra soil into the wheelbarrow and raking the ground around the area, Tim pointed toward the labor complete, put one hand on his son’s shoulder. Then he proclaimed, “Not a bad job for a Saturday afternoon chore.”

His son nodded his head and said, “So, will we put the apples on tomorrow?”

Oh that it were that easy. How delightful to imagine a place where we could just put the apples on the tree. It doesn’t happen that way.

There was a man once who purchased not one but twenty-five apple trees. He wanted to start an orchard. He planted them with love; he nurtured them with dedication. For more than a decade he enjoyed the fruits of his labor. The fruit came from twenty-four trees. One refused to produce any fruit. The tree seemed healthy, in fact more so than the others, but it was barren.

An older farmer complimented him, one day, on his productive orchard. In talking with the farmer, the man related the refusal of the one tree to bear fruit. The farmer suggested the tree did not produce fruit because it had not yet wept. Puzzled the man questioned him more. He went on to explain farmers often would deliberately scar up their trees when they planted them. Going to his pickup, he retrieved a sixteen penny nail and hammer. The nail was driven into the tree until the sap began to run.

The tree wept. The next year the once barren tree produced more fruit than and of the others.

So it is with us. Sometimes our best fruit refuses to break out until we’ve been scarred and we have wept.

1. Wesemann, Tim, Seasons Under the Son, Stories of Grace (Saint Louis, MO: Concordia Publisheing House, 2002)

Are You Sure You Want To Cancel?

“Thank you for calling the Broadband Phone Company with the Cute Advertisement Where the Husband Is Dancing in the Background as the Wife Sings Our Praise. (Please note my discretion: I did not name the company.) For information on your account press “1”; for matters concerning the Letter of Authorization press “2”; to speak to a Customer Service Representative press “3”. . . .

I pressed “3” and heard the switching of the computers. “Thank you for calling the Broadband Phone Company (etc). You are important to us. Your call may be monitored for quality control.”

Cue the music. Music plays for fourteen bars.

“Your call is important to us. Did you know you can find answers to many commonly asked questions on our website at This Broadband Phone Company Dot Com?

Cue some more music.

“We are sorry for the delay. Your call is important to us. Currently, however, we are experiencing a large volume of calls. The wait time to speak to a customer representative is …”

Cue the computer voice.

“Twin-tee-five minutes.”

Cue the music.

I pressed the speaker button on the phone, clicked on the Vanderbilt Divinity School listing of the scriptures for next Sunday. I read through each of the scriptures. I want to preach a sermon on the Old Testament lesson. That’s the scripture our Sunday school classes will be focused on. But … No, the New Testament lesson speaks to me. I print the scripture out and begin to make notes on my idea in the margins. A little bell goes off in my brain! I click on my ready source of funny stories. Yes, that will work. Great introduction for the sermon.

The music is interrupted by the same female voice. “We value you as a customer and apologize for the delay. A customer representative will be available shortly.” I look at my watch. Nope, it won’t be shortly. According to the last estimate I’ve still got fifteen minutes to go.

Back to the sermon, I keep working. I’ve got a good outline just flowing out of my brain. It’s perfect: three points. And I’m thinking of good illustrations for each point. Before I know it I’ve completed a really detailed outline. I print it; prop it up beside by keyboard and start forming the sermon on in a word document. This is wonderful. It’s Monday and this sermon is just building itself.

I’m filling in the body of the second point when she interrupts me. “We value you as a customer. Did you know can find answers to many commonly asked questions on our website at This Broadband Phone Company Dot Com?”

Cue the music.

Yes, I did know. You told me a while ago. I’ve got to admit the music is conductive of a good creative environment. This sermon is really coming along.

I’m halfway through point three when I sit back in my chair, stretch the arms and arch the back, waking my muscles, turning left and right with my arms extended. It was the second twist of the torso that led my eyes to the time at the bottom of the computer screen. She lied. It’s been forty-five minutes. Oh well …

The sermon is really coming. Maybe I should call a customer service representative every Sunday morning. (Hmmm, is that phone battery fully charged?) Back to the sermon: Okay, how do I get to the conclusion?

“Hello, thank you for holding. My name is Edward. Would you please give me your account number so I can access your account?”

I do.

“Thank you. And can you give me your user name and password?”

I can. I do.

“Thank you. And what is your address?”

At this point I’m a little peeved Edward has interrupted my sermon preparation, and I want to mess with him a bit. But, I’ve waited a long time to speak to Edward. I give him the address.

“Very well. And you are Questing Parson?”

“I am.”

“Do you mind if I call you Questing?”

“No, Edward, you can call me anything you want.”

“Very well, Questing, how can I assist you?”

“Edward, I need to cancel my contract. It’s just not going to work.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Questing. I’m afraid I can’t handle cancellation of accounts. I need to transfer you to Accounts Management.”

“Okay, Edward.”

The phone starts ringing. A male computer voice announces: “The number you have called cannot be accessed on this platform.” This is followed by a long BEEEEEEPPP. I’ve been cut off.

I’m a patient parson. I redial the number.

“Thank you for calling the Broadband Phone Company with the Cute Advertisement Where the Husband Is Dancing in the Background as the Wife Sings Our Praise. (Please note my discretion: I did not name the company.) For information on your account press “1”; for matters concerning the Letter of Authorization press “2”; to speak to a Customer Service Representative press “3”. . . .

I press “3” and turn back to my sermon.

I had finished the sermon. The only thing lacking was a bit of polishing. The day was really going well. Monday and the sermon is finished. I’m euphoric. I save the sermon and turn my attention to the bulletin. I have to write a little article for the cover each Sunday. Ah, here’s the opportunity to get the Old Testament lesson in. I read it over again and again and again. I seized on a small point in the lesson and began to expand on it with pen and paper. Not bad. This was an okay …

“Your call is important to us. Did you know can find answers to many commonly asked questions on our website at This Broadband Phone Company Dot Com?”

I hated the interruptions. The work was going so well.

Cue the music.

I finished the cover of the bulletin just before ….

“Hello, I’m Cheryl. Would you please give me your account number so I can access your account?”

I do.

“Thank you. And can you give me your user name and password?”

I can. I do.

“Thank you. And what is your address?”

I’m wondering why they need the mailing address when I just gave them the user name and password. But I give it.

“Do you mind if I call you Questing?”

“No, Cheryl, you can call me anything you want.”

“Very well, Questing, how can I assist you?”

“Cheryl, I need to cancel my contract. It’s just not going to work.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m not able to do handle that transaction here. I need to transfer you to the Accounts Management Department.

She does.

Guess what? You got it: A male computer voice announces: “The number you have called cannot be accessed on this platform.” This is followed by a long BEEEEEEPPP. I’ve been cut off.

I redial. I’m reading Doubt, A History by the time I get a person this time. The sermon’s completed. The bulletin’s almost the can. I’m ready for battle when the next rep answers. I danced the dance with her until she wanted the Accounts Management people to cut in. “No, that won’t cut it,” I say. We engage in some verbal fisticuffs. I demand the direct line to the Accounts Management. She gives it to me.

I dial it. “Thank you for calling the Broadband Phone Company with the Cute Advertisement Where the Husband Is Dancing in the Background as the Wife Sings Our Praise. (Please note my discretion: I did not name the company.) For information on your account press “1”; for matters concerning the Letter of Authorization press “2”; to speak to a Customer Service Representative press “3”. . . .

Call me stupid!! It’s the same number!! Back to the book.

When we get to the transfer part this time I inform them that if I get cut off once more I’ll call my credit card company and cancel any payments. I was well within the time period. This time I get transferred successfully.

I really didn’t get the person’s name clear in my mind. But I tried to be courteous. I once again said I needed to cancel.

“Would you mind explaining why to me, Questing?”

“No, I don’t mind. In order to have your service I have to have another phone line coming into my house. Currently that line also hosts my DSL service. After I installed your hardware last night and activated my account, I received an email from you stating I needed to get my local phone company to install another line for the DSL so I could access your service in the current line. So, counting your service, that would be three phone lines coming into the house. Let’s average those at $30 a piece. That’s not the savings you advertise. You’ve got a great service, I’m sure, but it’s just not going to work for me. I need to cancel the contract.”

“I don’t think you’ve thought this through, Questing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There are great advantages to our company.”

“I’m sure millions of other people will enjoy them. And I don’t think that my cancellation will jeopardize your salary.”

“But, sir, there are other factors to consider.”

“You’re right. There are. Here’s one. I’m retired. I have plenty of time. There’s no one here for me to talk to, so your company is great. I don’t know how long you’re supposed to spend trying to talk me out of this, but I’m available for all of it. You do your thing and at the end of the time period I’ll still cancel.”

She apparently felt that I could be dissuaded. On and on and on she went.

I finished chapter two of Doubt, A History while she was talking. At that point I felt as though I’d had enough.

“Bye,” I said. I hung up letting her feel victorious.

I called my bank. They provide my Visa card. The computer asked me to speak the number of my card. I did. In two rings a real person answered. It was Gail. I told her my problem. She asked me if she could put me on hold for a moment. Why not? I told her to go ahead. In two minutes she was back with a manager of the above-referred-to company on a conference call. He cancelled my contract within two minutes. He also gave me the amount of my refund and the date it would be in my hand.

I guess there are some lessons here. One would be: if your phone works don’t fix it. Another would be: it’s not what you know but who you know and I know Gail.

Fifty Cents For My Friend

Last Wednesday was a delightful day.  I woke early, poured the coffee, toasted some bread and then soaked it in bee’s honey, and pulled out a good book. “Bye, honey,” I heard my wife exclaim as she walked out the door. I mumbled back to her and turned my attention to the day ahead.

Feet propped on the sofa, I sipped coffee and sopped honey. And I read my book. It was glorious. The phone rang not once. Chapter after chapter I read. So content was I the time slipped away. Atlanta!  I had a luncheon appointment with my oldest son in Atlanta. Into the car I jumped and raced away.

I actually made it in time. I was sitting at the restaurant waiting on him and my daughter-in-love. We shared a meal together. It’s rare we get to do this. Both of them are internationally acclaimed dance stars and jet from one performance to the other, one continent after the other.

Following my lunch meal, I bid them good bye and jumped in the car to head to the next appointment. My youngest son thought I was coming to see him. My youngest son and my other daughter-in-love are parents of the most beautiful two-year-old girl in Georgia.. It’s okay that my son thought I was coming to see him.

The quickest way to get to his house from downtown Atlanta is via Georgia 400, the infamous toll road. I was cruising along whistling with the radio when I noticed the glare from the driver of the SUV in the lane beside me. A few seconds later he zoomed around me and almost clipped my bumper as he darted ahead. Apparently, he didn’t like to be behind a hybrid vehicle. I moved to another lane to avoid him. As luck would have that lane began to move faster and in a few moments I passed him again. Once again he veered out of his lane and accelerated until he passed me and cut me off again.  This went on at least seven or eight times. I’d go with the flow; he’d dash ahead. Poor fellow, my little battery enhanced car was keeping up with his 300 horse power. He must have felt awful.

I stayed in my lane. It brought me ahead of him just as we were approaching the toll booth. He crossed two lanes in order to place himself behind me.  I pulled up to the collector’s window, preparing to hand her my fifty cents. But then I had an inspiration. I handed her a dollar. “This will pay for me and my friend behind me,” I said.

In my mirror I watched him reach his hand toward the attendant. I watched him pull it back. But most of all I watched the puzzled look on his face when he drew along side me and I waved.

You think I did that because I believe one should turn the other cheek, don’t you? Well, you believe that. You can believe it because unlike him you didn’t see the smirk on my face when he fell in behind me and behaved.

Lord, Let Her Be Somebody

My dear friend the Reverend Paul Turner called. Paul pastors the Gentle Spirit Christian Church in Atlanta, Georgia. It’s a church he founded. His was a congregation looking for a roof under which they could worship when we first met. The church to which I was appointed, hearing of their plight, cried “Come on in!”

So the Gentle Spirit folks worshiped in the evening on Sunday and we kept the 11:00 morning worship hour. Paul established an office on the premises and we became friends, laughing at each other’s jokes (although his laugh was never as forced as mine), arguing theology, and praying together for those for whom we served.

I retired and left Paul to educate my successor and to continue his vital pastorate without the benefit of my counsel. The latter he’s done well. The jury is still out on the former

Following my “hello,” Paul simply said, “Brenda’s here.”

“Who? What?”

“Brenda.”

“You have to do better than that.”

“She said she was a friend of Ron and you used to be her pastor.”

Ron’s friend! It came back to me. Brenda had been Ron’s friend, one of the collections of poor souls Ron seemed to attract to himself.

Ron lived in the park across the street from the church. He was the most unforgettable characters of all the characters that inhabited the homeless environs of Atlanta. He was something else.

Brenda had been a friend of Ron and Ron’s girlfriend. She stayed with them down in the park for months. They came to church often. And Brenda came to the office to talk often. She was battling drugs. It was a hell of a struggle. I remember that day when she turned a corner. She stood outside my office one Sunday morning and proclaimed in a voice loud enough to scare the blue hairs in the old folks Sunday school class back to life: “Praise the Lord, praise the Lord. I may still be stoned on drugs, but I ain’t no whore anymore.”

It sure was a weird way of doing it. But Brenda meant it. She wasn’t a whore anymore. She had gotten the Spirit and she wasn’t about to bring shame to her Lord by selling her body down on Ponce de Leon Avenue anymore. And because she refused to sell her body because her Jesus wouldn’t like it, she didn’t have money to buy the drugs. She went through the DTs down in the park with Ron and Barbara encouraging her every step of the way. They stayed with her constantly, except for short breaks to slip down by the picnic pavilion to take a bit of their own medicine that was best partaken through a rolled reefer. It would be inconsiderate, you see, to smoke the weed in front of Brenda in the midst of her struggle.

Brenda made it. She got clean. I let her use the church address on her applications, so she got a job as a waitress. A little later she started taking some classes at a technical school. Eventually she moved away to a better job.

“Put her on the phone,” I told Paul.

“Brenda, what’s going on?”

“They told me you retired, parson. I wish you were here. I’m sorry, parson, I messed up.”

“What happened, Brenda?”

“Well, I thought it had been three five years since my drying out and that one drink wouldn’t hurt. But it did. It truly did, parson.”

“How long have you been drinking, Brenda?”

“Six months, parson. I’m really sorry. Do you think you could help me one more time?”

“Brenda, you made this choice yourself.”

“I know I did. But this baby in my belly didn’t have a choice.”

My heart sunk. Brenda is at least forty. She’s homeless again. She’s pregnant. She’s drunk.”

My mind just quit functioning for a minute. “Parson, you there?”

“I’m here, Brenda. What do you want from us, Brenda?”

“I want you to find me a place where I can do what I have to do to make sure this baby is born healthy.”

“Brenda, I’ve retired. You’re going to have to let Pastor Paul handle this. I live too far away to be able to help you.”

“Will you pray for me?”

“I will.”

“Will you please pray real hard for my baby?”

“I already am.”

“When my baby is born will you baptize her?”

“It would be my honor. How do you know it’s a girl?”

“Cause my baby is going to be somebody and men ain’t worth shit!”

“Did you notice I’m a man?”

“Well you ain’t preaching here no more so I think I’ll just stick to my judgment.”

“Let me talk to Pastor Paul.”

I talked with him about some options. I gave him the names of some people to call. The next day he called me back. Turns out none of my contacts were a bit of help. But, just as he was about to give up, my successor walked in. She listened to the story and then informed Paul that he could take Brenda to Grady Hospital. Because she’s pregnant she went to the front of the line and her treatment started that day. Who would have thought there would be another besides me who could handle these things?

I’m going down in a couple of weeks to see Brenda, when she’s dried out. We’ll talk about that baby girl that’s coming, about when she's going to be baptized and how that child is going to be somebody.

Nothing Better To Do

I made my way from ICU to head home after a long day. A young girl was sitting in a lobby by herself. Noticing she was alone I made my way to one of the office alcoves where a hospital employee worked.

“Is she by herself?”

“Well, her mother’s back in the ICU with her father. I’m not sure what’s wrong with the dad, but the mother asked me to keep an eye on her while she was back there.”

“How long has she been out here?”

“A good while now.”

It was late, too late for her to be up in any other environment. I walked over to her. “Hi, what’s your name?”

“Ellen,” she said, looking at me with a smile. And she added before I could ask, “I’m eight.”

“Well, I’m a lot older than eight,” I said. “Do you mind if I sit down here with you for a minute?”

“Nope, I’m just coloring this book."

I looked at the book. Snow White had never received as much attention from a Disney animator as this child gave her. “You’re really good at coloring,” I said.

“I try to do my best,” she told me.

We spent a few minutes going through her stories of The Adventures of Snow White. Every page found the heroine as beautifully filled in as the next. She really did have an eye for it.

“What are you doing sitting out here alone?” I finally asked her.

“My daddy is really sick,” she said. “They have him back there in a special place and there’s wires and stuff hooked up to him. There’s a TV up above his head and it has these numbers and wavy lines and that tells them how he’s doing. But I don’t think he’s doing very good. My mommy is back there with him; she’s been back there a long time and I don’t know what’s going on. . . .” She rambled on and on with each word dripping of her fear and anxiety. Finally, she said, with tears now running down her cheek, “I think my daddy is going to go see Jesus pretty soon.”

She looked up at me, her upper teeth were impaling her lower lip. Her body shook with a sob. She leaned toward me and suddenly her head was on my chest and her tears rolled down like an everlasting stream, washing my shirt in her anxiety and exhaustion. Words failed me. I held her. I looked over at the hospital employee in her cubicle and tears were running down her cheek too. I wiped my cheek lest her pony tail get wet.

I don’t know how long we stayed there. She seemed to find comfort in our hugging. Gradually the sobs melted down into an occasional sigh. And soon she raised herself from my chest. “I’m supposed to be a big girl, mommy said. I’m sorry I cried.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Big girls cry a lot.”

For a while we examined the coloring books and then I asked, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Mommy forgot to leave me any money for the machine.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I know where some drinks are hidden that you don’t need money to get.”

I took her hand and headed for the emergency room. Swiping my card in the lock, I pushed open the door and headed for the refrigerator in the supply room stocked with all kinds of goodies. We loaded up and headed back going through the main lobby. For some reason we stopped there and sat ourselves down on the wall of the pool below the fountain at the entrance. There we ate a Milky Way and drank a Sprite.

I told her about people throwing coins in the pool and making a wish. I gave her a quarter. She tossed it while her eyes were closed and her lips formed the words of her wish. I could not hear the words but I think I know what it was.

Sitting in the corner of the entrance area is a player piano. I walked over toward the piano and we slipped under the “keep out of here” ropes. We sat ourselves down and pushed the proper buttons. In no time at all we were “coming to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses.” Following that, I sang her “amazing grace …”

She laughed and added in a sweet melodic voice “how sweet the sound.”

We’d no longer “been there ten thousand years,” when the night nursing supervisor walked through. “Are you supposed to be behind those ropes playing with the piano?” she asked.

“Well, sure,” I said. “The chaplain knows we’re here.”

“Yeah, well that’s your tale, parson, I sit on mine. The chaplain’s on vacation and you know it.” she said as she exited the far door.

We closed our performance, attended by some of the county’s best floor polishers, with a stirring rendition of “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” And by the time we got to “he is strong,” the polishers had turned off their machines and were singing along. It was as we proclaimed, “for the Bible tells me so,” in the final chorus the supervisor came walking back through.

“Parson, we love you to death, but it’s eleven-thirty at night and this is a hospital.”

The floor polishers suddenly found their machines worked again and kept their eyes downward, staring intently at the spinning pads.

“I guess we’d better go,” I said, taking her hand.

As we headed down the hall, she said, “I know what a parson is.”

“Oh, what’s a parson?”

“A parson is somebody who is a friend of God and takes care of people.”

“Well, I hope you're right,” I told her.

Back in the lobby outside ICU, we prepared to play “Go Fish.” Before I dealt the cards I asked the employee, “Would you call my wife and tell her I’m going to be a little busy?” She nodded. The game began.

Long after the time little girls turn into pumpkins we finished the game. I whispered to her, “Why don’t you color another picture and I’ll go back and check on your daddy and your mother.”

The employee once again agreed to keep an eye on her. I left and swiped my card to enter the unit. I asked where her dad was. The nurse directed me to the cubicle. There was her mother sleeping upright in the chair beside the bed. Her hand was holding her husband’s whose was penetrated by IV tubes. Both looked peaceful despite the place they slept.

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked the nurse.

“Oh, sure,” she said. “He was critical this morning. But he’s stable now. They may put some stints in, but that’s all. He’ll be fine.”

I thanked her and returned to Ellen. I told her I’d seen her daddy and her mother. I explained her daddy would be going home in a couple of days. And I told her that her mother was still sitting beside her daddy’s bed. I asked her if she’d like me to tell her some stories while we waited.

I sat down and put my arm around her. She leaned against me and the story began. It must have been about halfway through the Hundred Acre Wood her head slid down my side to rest in my lap. I kept talking of Christopher Robin and Eyore and Pooh Bear ….

My hand was stuck in Pooh’s honey jar when the supervisor’s voice penetrated the fog in the Hundred Acre Wood of my consciousness, “Don’t you have something better to do than to sleep on a sofa in a hospital waiting room?”

I looked at Ellen sleeping peacefully on my lap. I thought of her mother sleeping beside her daddy on the other side of the big double doors. I stroked her hair and silently thanked God I was a parson. “No,” I said, “I don’t have anything better to do.”

I smiled at her and then made a request: “Wake me when the shift changes, would you?”

She nodded. I closed my eyes and drifted back to a place where little children are safe and have no fears, where their mommy never leaves them alone in a strange place and where their daddy is always strong, and a place where Pooh’s stolen honey tastes so sweet.

Straight Ahead, Together

A delight to behold they were, obviously in love. But indications said there were bumps along the path of romance.

When I first looked he was talking to her in an animated manner. Arms went up and down. Whatever the subject, he was definitely emphasizing his point. His brow wrinkled. As he talked, body language communicated he felt distant from her. He kept talking, until …

She raised her right hand, index finger extended, painted nails pointed to the spot between his eyes. Her finger moved up and down. He reacted, raising his hands in the classical “I don’t know” gesture. She moved the finger closer. He moved back.

She lowered her hand and pointed finger. He began to talk again. Obviously, anger was punctuating his words. She stared. He talked. She stared. Suddenly, she turned away from him and pounded her palms on the steering wheel of the car in which she sat.

He spoke some more words. She pounded her palms again. He stopped talking. She glared. He moved further from her until his back embraced the passenger door. She now stared through the windshield. He studied the car behind them. It appeared the silence was deafening.

Seconds seemed as hours. Eventually, he raised his hand in a “hold it a minute” gesture. He began to talk once again. His hand lowered, but his lips kept moving. In just a short time both his hands came up in an “I give up” gesture. Still, he talked. She still stared out the front windshield.

What he said must have been magical. Gradually, as he continued speaking, he removed his back from the door and leaned forward. Tears were now running down her cheeks. She still gripped the steering wheel. She still stared straight ahead. But her face was softening. He leaned closer.

He stopped talking, paused in his movement toward her. She began to speak without looking at him. He responded. She talked. He kept quiet. She spoke. He placed his hands together in a sign of supplication. She turned toward him.

He looked away from her out the windshield. She talked more. His hands rose to his head, one on each side. He massaged his temples. She looked forward. His forehead moved down and rested on the dash. They both now seemed frozen in time.

Eventually he raised his head. His hand moved slowly toward her. His palms were turned toward him. With the back of his fingers he gently caressed her cheek. She turned her head toward him.  His finger found its way to her lips. They puckered in the form of a kiss.

Suddenly his finger departed her lip and moved up her face. His other hand lifted into view and impulsively he used both to muss up her hair. His hands she quickly pushed away, but she was laughing. His hand was now on her shoulders; they drifted with purpose toward the back of her neck. He pulled her forward. Their lips met in a kiss. And then they hugged.

It was at that point the horn of the car behind them sounded. They jumped apart. It was then she saw me, watching intently in my rearview mirror. I looked away to see the light green. I turned left. They went straight ahead, together.

Lessons From Fire Station Twelve

A delight to behold they were, obviously in love. But indications said there were bumps along the path of romance.

When I first looked he was talking to her in an animated manner. Arms went up and down. Whatever the subject, he was definitely emphasizing his point. His brow wrinkled. As he talked, body language communicated he felt distant from her. He kept talking, until …

She raised her right hand, index finger extended, painted nails pointed to the spot between his eyes. Her finger moved up and down. He reacted, raising his hands in the classical “I don’t know” gesture. She moved the finger closer. He moved back.

She lowered her hand and pointed finger. He began to talk again. Obviously, anger was punctuating his words. She stared. He talked. She stared. Suddenly, she turned away from him and pounded her palms on the steering wheel of the car in which she sat.

He spoke some more words. She pounded her palms again. He stopped talking. She glared. He moved further from her until his back embraced the passenger door. She now stared through the windshield. He studied the car behind them. It appeared the silence was deafening.

Seconds seemed as hours. Eventually, he raised his hand in a “hold it a minute” gesture. He began to talk once again. His hand lowered, but his lips kept moving. In just a short time both his hands came up in an “I give up” gesture. Still, he talked. She still stared out the front windshield.

What he said must have been magical. Gradually, as he continued speaking, he removed his back from the door and leaned forward. Tears were now running down her cheeks. She still gripped the steering wheel. She still stared straight ahead. But her face was softening. He leaned closer.

He stopped talking, paused in his movement toward her. She began to speak without looking at him. He responded. She talked. He kept quiet. She spoke. He placed his hands together in a sign of supplication. She turned toward him.

He looked away from her out the windshield. She talked more. His hands rose to his head, one on each side. He massaged his temples. She looked forward. His forehead moved down and rested on the dash. They both now seemed frozen in time.

Eventually he raised his head. His hand moved slowly toward her. His palms were turned toward him. With the back of his fingers he gently caressed her cheek. She turned her head toward him.  His finger found its way to her lips. They puckered in the form of a kiss.

Suddenly his finger departed her lip and moved up her face. His other hand lifted into view and impulsively he used both to muss up her hair. His hands she quickly pushed away, but she was laughing. His hand was now on her shoulders; they drifted with purpose toward the back of her neck. He pulled her forward. Their lips met in a kiss. And then they hugged.

It was at that point the horn of the car behind them sounded. They jumped apart. It was then she saw me, watching intently in my rearview mirror. I looked away to see the light green. I turned left. They went straight ahead, together.

Listen to Your Mom

Putt-Putt was the plan. I picked her up from school, and we headed toward our adventure. All of life is an adventure when the two of us are together. She’s seven. She’s the light of my life. With her I can be myself, no pretense. With me, she’s free to be whatever she can be, without parental definition. She’s my granddaughter.

We’d driven just a short distance when she started the conversation. “Mom told me we were playing putt-putt because you have a hard time playing soccer because you’re getting older.”

“Well,” I said, “sometimes your mother tries to protect me. She forgets I’m the daddy and she’s the child. I may be older. But I’m not that old. We can play soccer anytime you want. Don’t listen to everything your mother tells you.”

“Cool, next time we can play soccer. I’ve got some friends who can play with us,” she said. That train of thought exhausted she turned her attention to the scenery flowing past her window. In a few minutes, however, she asked, “How old are you?”

“I’m sixty-four.”

“Sixty-four!? That’s old!!”

“It’s not that old.”

“Well, I’m pretty good at math and it’s pretty close to one hundred,” she explained.

I didn’t say anything. It’s difficult to argue with logic.

It was about a half-mile further up the road when she resumed our conversation. “So, mom, says when you get as old as you are sometimes you start forgetting things.”

“Sometimes your mom exaggerates. Everybody forgets things. Didn’t you forget I was coming over today? You shouldn’t believe everything your mother says.

“Sure,” she relied. “How much further to the putt-putt?”

“Not far, keep your seat belt on.”

The Putt-Putt wasn’t close enough. Before we arrived she engaged me in another subject matter. “Mom said when she was your little girl you were very strict and made her obey a lot of rules. Were you mean?”

“No! I was not mean. I wasn’t as strict as your mom wants you to believe. She’s just saying that because she wants to be strict with you. Don’t listen to everything your mother says.”

“Okay.” There was a pause before the subject was again changed. “Mom says when she was a little girl you’d get really upset if she didn’t keep her room as neat as a pin.”

“Your mom has a funny memory. I didn’t get upset. I just don’t think children should have rooms as messy as pigpens. Didn’t I tell you not to believe everything your mom tells you?”

“You did; I won’t,” she said. “We’re here!” she explained as we pulled into the putt-putt parking lot.

She picked out a blue ball for me because I’m a boy. She took a red one. We played three complete rounds. I enjoyed the game, watching her rejoice for a shot well made and her taunting me when her score started getting close to mine.

When we finished she exclaimed, “You win! That’s good. Mom says you don’t ever like to lose.”

“It’s not that I don’t like to lose. It’s just I think we should always do our best. Your mom gets some things about me all twisted up in her memory. What did I tell you?”

"I know, ‘Don’t believe everything mom says.'”

She wouldn’t leave it alone, however. “Did you know my mom says you’re about the smartest man in all the world.”

“You should always listen to what your mom says.”

Two Peas of the Same Pod

Pauline Thomason died last week. By four years she missed her longevity goal. Pauline was ninety-six. My grandmother was ninety-six when she died.

Pauline and Mama had a lot in common. Feisty comes to mind, an impish grin whispering of a joke not yet spoken, love of family whose lives evoked pride. From the same fabric were they cut, Mama and Pauline.

The last time I saw Pauline she was lying in a hospital bed talking of going home. The last time I saw Mama she, also, lay in a hospital bed, begging me to help her up for her daily two-mile walk.

I do not mourn the passing of either. They lived life well, and, if asked, they’d have told you where they were going. I mourn the passing of a generation and a time they represented.

Historians say the event that shaped Southern character more than any other was the Civil War. Historians never talked to Mama or Pauline. The epiphany of their living occurred on October 24, 1929, Thursday, the day the bottom fell out of the Stock Market. Coming of age in the time of the Great Depression, they were shaped by scarcity.

My Mama was economical. One didn’t waste food. Culinary delicacies could be created from basic ingredients. I’d stand by the stove as she showed me how to stir flour into grease until it turned just the right color. Then we’d add a little salt, a little black pepper, and a little milk. She’d stir until just right. Cooking done, we’d pour the mixture over biscuits, slice some red, homegrown, tomatoes, a cantaloupe, pull a chair to the dining room table and feast upon the best our heritage had to offer.

She showed me how to clean the iron skillet. “Don’t scrub it too hard”, and gave me a lightly greased rag to caress it properly.

They lived by hard work. Aunt Virginia called me over one day to talk to Mama. I found her hoeing the garden. My aunt said Mama had a broken bone in her right foot. “Tell him what the doctor said.” Mama replied with silence. “Tell him the doctor said not to put any weight on it.” Mama said nothing but lifted her right foot to the height of her left knee and hopped around as she finished her day’s task.

Mama was a tiny, powerful woman. She believed the sound of a cork being removed from a whiskey bottle was a siren call to the devil. She thought castor oil would cure any malady. She believed I became a better man because she made me shovel coal into and cinders out of the furnace.

Mama, believed in God. Mama believed if she discussed it long enough with God, Jesus and I would become pals.

I miss Mama. I’ll miss Pauline. She reminded me of Mama. I already miss the way of life they represented. So, Pauline, now that you’re at that place where the ambrosia tastes better than crumbled cornbread in buttermilk, take the time to look up my Mama. I suspect you’re two peas from the same pod.