A Rising Rev. Gal Pal

The area ordained brothers and sisters of the denomination were gathered at the annual picnic atop the mountain retreat. Here they were engaged in their favorite pastime of devouring home cooked dishes now spread across the long row of tables along one side of the pavilion. Another, but shorter, row of tables was laden with a large assortment of pies, cakes, brownies, cobblers, cookies and other sweets. Between the two a single table displayed a variety of drinks from tea to soda to water. Down the sides of the displays filed the followers of the Way, now on a mission to overindulge in a manner the more secular might call sinful.

Laughter bounced among the trees; old friends swapped stories of churches long ago served; the more senior imparted unsolicited wisdom to those too young, too new, and not yet accomplished enough to slip away without offense. The afternoon passed in frivolity until bloated bellies signaled to many the time of departure was near. As the crowd thinned the parson walked down toward the beach to watch those who shared the area splash and sun at the beach.

She was dressed in a two piece of fashionable style whose color complimented her blonde hair whose natural curl bounced with ever move. The parson sat on a rock wall bordering the beach. She approached. She smiled as she reached for a towel folded and sitting on the wall beside him. She wiped her face, shook her curls, and patted the wet drops from her torso. Replacing the towel on the wall she turned to face the parson and smiled.

“You’re with those preachers, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I am. “How did you know?”

“I can spot a preacher a mile away,” she said.

“That’s a unique talent,” the parson suggested. “How do you do it?”

“Easy,” she replied, “I’m a preacher’s kid.”

“Is your Mom and Dad up at the picnic?”

“Nope,” she responded. She pointed her finger toward a trio, man woman and child, sitting near the water’s edge. “Those are my folks and my brother.”

The parson did not recognize them. “Where’s your church?” he asked.

“Oh, we don't live in this state,” she told me. She jumped up on the wall and took a seat beside the parson. “My Mom’s the pastor at Main Street Church.”

“How long has she been the pastor?”

“Oh, she’s been at Main Street for two years. Before that we were at a smaller church in the eastern part of the state. We were there, let’s see, I was six, we were there for four years.”

“So what do you think about preacher’s kids having to move so often?”

“At first I didn’t like it,” she said. “I mean I didn’t like it at first because I left my friends, but I get new friends when we move and I keep up with my old friends on Facebook.”

She paused as she waved to her family, then she continued. “Do you move much?”

“No, actually, I don’t,“ the parson confessed. “I’m retired.”

“But you’re at the preacher’s picnic.”

“Well, they let me hang out with them sometimes. Besides. the food is pretty good.”

“I know,” she smiled. “I love dinner-on-the-grounds.”

“So,” asked the parson, “what’s it like being a preacher’s kid whose mother is the preacher?”

“I think it’s great. The church could use a woman’s touch. Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “Your Mom’s a good preacher I guess.”

“She is,” she said, hopping off the wall. “But I’m going to be better.”

Comments

[mary beth]

Gloryosky!!!

[StCasserole]

I love her!

[Wayne]

May it be so!

[net]

Whoot! Atta girl!