Questing Parson: Searching For Home

September 07, 2011

Searching For Home

Across the state the parson traveled. Two appointments, many miles apart, demanded his attention. Hours also separated the designated times, and, so, the parson indulged himself in detouring down memory lane.

On the way to the first matter of the day he detoured through an inner city neighborhood of the big city. On a particular street he slowed to a snail's pace to better observe two houses, side by side. In one, he'd lived with his grandmother and grandfather for the first years of his life. Next door his cousins had lived. The two houses combined to build a wonderful refuge of laughter and learning, play and maturing in an environment of love. The driveways of the houses were side by side, with one being a couple feet higher in elevation. Between the two were steps to advance from one to the other. The parson remembered the day the steps had been poured. He remembered the feel of the cold concrete as his grandfather and uncle pressed his and his cousin's feet into the substance. It was all he could do to not stop and walk up the drive to observe once again the inscriptions of happy childhood.

But he moved on, slowly toward the first appointment and past the church in which he grew up. When he joined the church it had been only two years off a two point circuit where two churches shared a pastor. Now the various buildings sprawled out across fifteen acres. A professional lawn service company was cutting the grass in the cemetery where the parson had once performed that task. the parson smiled at the realization he should have been remembering that here he preached his first sermon. Instead, his mind fixed on the memory that here he'd kissed Carole Memory.

His first meeting was at the Church of the Chosen Suburb. There he met with several pastors, most of whom were young enough to be his children, to discuss plans for an upcoming initiative to seek more support for a homeless ministry. The meeting over, the parson headed across the state to his second gathering.
He checked his watch to make sure he had time. Then he made another detour toward the place he'd lived before he and Ms. Parson had married. He and his, then, wife had found a delightful cabin in the woods in the shape of a barn. The entire second floor was one bedroom suite. The detour brought sadness. The once beautiful water garden the parson spent years building was grown over with weeds; the gutters were overflowing with leaves; there were signs of mold on the side of the cabin. The parson moved away, remembering a younger time when he'd spend hours per day renovating that place. Only the car in the drive evidenced the place was not abandoned.

One more detour on the way to the second appointment took the parson past a church he'd served for only six months. He'd filled in until the regular time for appointing pastors rolled around. As the parson slowed he noted that nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing had changed. Even the wording on the sign in front of the church was the same, the same as it had been two decades ago when he left.

The second meeting of the day was boring, boring, boring, The parson turned toward home with a vow to quit going to meetings. The parson decided to wash it away with another detour. This time the destination was to a church he'd served in his second year of ministry.

The parson passed through the county seat town and turned left on the highway leading north from it. He watched for the turnoff carefully. Everything seemed different. Finally, he decided on a particular road and headed down it. Miles and miles down the road he traveled. There was one more turn he needed take; it was to the right. It was to the right, wasn't it? The parson pulled over to the side of the road to think a minute. He headed back to the town, drove out on the highway again watching intently for the right road. He couldn't find it. Around and around the area he drove. Each incorrect brought back memories. Here, in this parish, his first child had been born. Here, at this church he sought, he'd experienced one of the more joyful ministries of his career. But the church had disappeared.

Finally, the parson stopped at a convenience store. He got a cup of cappuccino and, as he paid, asked the attendant about the church. “Oh, yeah,” said the attendant, “that church ain't there anymore. They closed it five or six years ago. Frank Brown bought the land and put that little strip mall on it. Yeah, that church ain't there anymore.”

The parson thanked the man, got back in his car, and pulled his seat belt on and spoke to his Garmon. “Voice Command.” Then he said, “Home.” The Garmon told him to turn right. He did.

About halfway there the parson thought to himself, “The only home you can go to is the one you experience in the now.”