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.”

Comments

[StCasserole]

Thanks for this. Life has wonderful moments.

[Pastor Sarah]

That story brings hope to young pastors who are in the midst of sowing seeds...some day we do see fruit, Praise God! Thank you.

[Jan]

After all this time, and on a day when this senior pastor was feeling especially tired, wondering if her efforts with her current "Tuesday Teens" were really worth it, she gets your email. Oh! I am so glad they are doing well. Who knew back then that miracles were in the making. So, so glad.