The walkway wandered through the hardwoods down a gentle incline to terminate at the children’s playground. Two-thirds down the slope, to the left, stood the pavilion hugged by the thigh high granite rock wall and with the grill forming the period beneath its exclamation point shape. The parson paused. Faint smell of dispensed smoke invited him to take a seat upon the wall, and when he did the insistent whooing of the owl evoked memory.
This path he’d walked years before on a night not too unlike this. Smoke danced through the trees that night, its smell united with the aroma of steak sizzling upon the bare rungs of the grill. On that night the parson had heard a voice before he saw a person.
“Hey, parson, come on over. Glad you could make it," called Leroy, one of the park’s distinguished residents. "We’ll have dinner in a few. Ronnie’s got some soft drinks over there. They’re not iced, but they’re not hot either.”
The parson headed to the cardboard box and selected a Sprite. The liquid fizzed when he popped the tab. The parson, expecting this, had pointed the direction of expansion away from his body. He sipped the drink and determined Leroy was right. The drink was not hot if hot was defined as boiling. He sat down on the wall and engaged Leroy in conversation. The topic was the difficulty of getting proper medical care at the municipal hospital, where care was supposed to be subsidized.
“Did you know they raised the price on the depression pills?” Leroy asked.
“No, I didn’t,” said the parson. “When did this happen?”
“Last week. They caught Marvin by surprise. He couldn’t afford it. Maybe you can talk to him when he comes by tonight,” Leroy suggested.
The parson watched Leroy with fascination. After a while he asked, “Leroy, are you going to turn those steaks?”
Leroy looked toward the parson and his forehead wrinkled with irritation. “Parson, a good chef only turns the meat once. I’ll turn it when it’s time.”
The parson nodded as he mentally bowed to one more proficient in culinary preparation.
“Where’d you get those steaks, Leroy? They look expensive.”
“We didn’t invite you to this party for you to ask stupid questions, parson.”
The parson nodded as he debated the ethics of partaking of a dinner some delivery person had let sit unattended on the tail of a truck a moment too long. Before he could resolve the ethics of the culture into which he’d been invited as an honored guest, Sylvia punched him on the shoulder.
“Hey parson,” she shouted with joy, as she jumped up and down with enthusiasm, “I’ve been sober three weeks. Can you believe it?”
The parson didn’t. “That’s wonderful, Sylvia. Of course, I believe it. You can do anything you set your mind to.”
Sylvia came closer. “Can I get a hug?”
The parson wrapped his arms around her. She nestled her head on his shoulder a moment, and then she turned her face toward his ear. She whispered, “It’s hard, parson; it’s really hard. At night I get the shakes. Are you still praying for me.”
“I am, Sylvia. I am, all the time.”
“Sylvia pressed her lips against the parson’s cheek. “Keep praying, parson, please keep praying.” She stepped back from the parson and yelled out to Leroy, “Hey, numb nuts, whose tossing the salad?”
Leroy pointed his spatula toward her. “Watch your mouth, Sylvia. Be a lady.”
“Okay, baby,” Sylvia sang out. “Hey, I’ll fix the salad for you.”
The parson watched Sylvia dance across the pavilion area to open some boxes that looked as though they’d been brought to the park on the Kroger delivery truck. He rolled his eyes upward, placed his hand on his forehead and whispered a silent prayer for guidance to the Almighty. When he looked back Sylvia had several heads of lettuce spread on the picnic table and was opening a case of tomatoes. Again the parson’s debate with himself and all that was holy was interrupted.
“Parson, come over here,” cried out Sylvester, the leading philosopher of the homeless community. Sylvester had a group of fellow homeless gathered in a semi-circle. The parson walked over. “Okay, I need your help here. I’m trying to help these guys understand the dynamic between a life lived in the Spirit and a life that is Spirit-filled.”
Immediately, the parson understood he was out of his league. But he took his place in the semi-circle and listened to the teacher. As he did so the parson thought of the seminary only two miles to the north and how much the faculty might benefit from listening to Sylvester.
A movement caught the parson’s eye. On the far side of the granite stone wall Fred was bent over one of the more desperate of the park’s characters. Willey had a difficult time. He was aged. He was frail. He kept misplacing his “stuff” and his friends had to replace them. The parson excused himself from 
his class and moved toward Fred and Willey. Drawing near, he saw Willey had his shoe off and his foot was being held by Fred. The parson was shocked to see Willey’s foot red and swollen. He greeted them. Fred told the parson to hold on a minute, that he’d be finished in a bit.
The parson watched Fred take a knife from his pocket. He opened it up and walked over to Leroy’s grill. He held the blade in the glowing coals as the parson stared at Willey’s foot and asked if Willey was in pain. He discovered he was.
Fred returned. With a deftness that hinted to his former life, Fred sliced the carbuncle located on the side of Willey’s foot. The brownish, thick, foul smelling, foam flowed copiously down Willey’s foot to drip from his arch on the grass below. Fred with a skill that defied his condition pressed his fingers into the wound forcing more out. Finally, Fred pulled bandages from a backpack sitting beside Willey on the wall and with tenderness wrapped Willey’s foot.
“Listen, Willey,” he said. “You need to find me twice a day. I’ll be here in the park most of the time. I’ll change your bandage then. Okay?”
Willey nodded as Fred pulled a clean sock over the bandages and placed Willey’s unlaced boot back on his foot.
Willey limped away. Fred came over to the parson. “I need some penicillin for him. Can you help?”
“I’ll see what I can do, but it will have to be in the morning.”
“That will be fine. I’ll get him drunk tonight so he can sleep through.”
The parson was about to thank Fred, but he was interrupted by Leroy’s call: “Let’s eat, everybody. Food’s ready. If you don’t get it now someone else will eat yours.”
Everyone headed toward the pavilion. There were about two dozen of them. People grabbed plastic plates and plastic utensils. Leroy shouted, “Hold on. Just hold on. The parson’s going to say grace.”
The parson stepped center and began his prayer, “Loving God, we thank you for these gifts …” The parson’s right eye opened to gaze on the boxes which had contained the ingredients of tonight’s feast. “…that your children have managed to gather ….”
They laughed that night. The steak, baked potatoes, tossed salad, and baked beans settled into usually empty but now contented bellies. After the plates had been tossed into the trash cans, after the area had been policed to Leroy’s satisfaction, Ron pulled out his guitar. He played their requests. At one point Sylvia came over and asked the parson to dance. As the night settled around the pavilion she once again whispered in the parson’s ear: “Please keep praying, parson. Don’t stop praying. It’s really hard.”
The fire was dying down when Ron gathered invited everyone to sing along in some old love songs mixed with gospel hymns.
After several songs, Sue announced she had a surprise. With that she pulled out a long necked bottle of Jack Daniels. “Woo, Hoo,” she exclaimed. “Let’s share.” For those accustomed to Wild Turkey the night cap was a delicate kiss of excellence. Around the circle the bottle was passed. It reached the parson where it hesitated a moment.
“Think of it as communion juice,” cried out Fred.
The parson looked around the park now empty. He remembered that night fondly. The burning of the liquid could still be remembered vibrantly. The parson turned and walked back toward his car. Once again at the postal box on the corner, he turned to look back into the shadows of the park and thought, “It was the last supper we had together."
All graphics by subscription with Clip Art Dot Com, excepting the Jack Daniels pic which comes from Google images
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My thanks for the card likewise. Am a little late in catching up with my blog readings but was moved by this post. I've passed it on with attribution, mope you don't mind.
Chocolate Eggs Jesus risen to you this Eastertide
Posted by: Anonymous Visitor | March 20, 2008 at 04:35 AM
Oops, pardon the misspelling, should be hope not mope and for some reason I was posted as Anon.
An Observer
Posted by: Anonymous Visitor | March 20, 2008 at 04:36 AM
Hi QP...Happy Easter, a couple of days early!
Posted by: forget me not | March 20, 2008 at 08:26 AM
This was beautiful and thanks for the Easter e-card. Pax Christe.
Law and Gospel
Posted by: Anonymous Visitor | March 20, 2008 at 12:41 PM