Questing Parson

How Firm A Foundation

Dear Brother Dalton,

You don’t know me. I’m a generation ahead of you. But I am an Elder in this denomination, and, as such, I decided to send this epistle to you for your encouragement and up-lifting.

I drove past your church a few days ago. My goodness, how things have changed. When I was in elementary school the street I lived on was only a short two block walk from the front door of your church. I cannot begin to tell you how troubled I was, upon driving through what used to be the old neighborhood, to discover the neighborhood is no longer there. Sweet Baby Jesus, what happened?

The street on which I lived is no longer there. It was named Blackmon Drive and it ran between North Decatur Road and Scott Blvd. Oh my goodness! It’s no longer there! Someone plowed up my old neighborhood and plopped a commercial development on top of it. Give me a minute to digest this. It’s traumatic. I’ll get back to you in the next paragraph.

Okay, here we are in the next paragraph. I’ve had a moment to reflect. I’ve brought myself face-to-face with the realization that times change, and, when they change, neighborhoods change. And when neighborhoods change …. Well you get the meaning of my reflection.

But, you know, some things should never change. And it is for that reason I write you. I doubt there are any members alive at your church who will remember this, but I do.  My Daddy was a charter member of the church you now serve. And I remember the day he and a bunch of other lay persons gathered on a Saturday to pour the slab that would become the foundation of the first building of that complex you now serve. 

They were good folks, my dad and his buddies. They’d served in World War II and they were now home to start a new life, full of promise and peace, and joy. So they went to church. In the case of your appointment they went to your church. And they built that first building for worship with their own hands.

When they built that new building, they did something out-of-the-ordinary. It is that out-of-the-ordinary gesture that causes me to write this episte. The out-of-the-ordinary gesture was this: They collected quarters ( yes, quarters as in 25 cent pieces ). And they collected enough quarters to make up $100. And then those veterans threw all $100 of quarters into the cement that was about to be poured to form the slab of the new church building. They did it, my Daddy said, “So that the church will never go broke.”

So, Brother Dalton, I know that your chuch faces challenges these days. The neighborhood is changing, as is evidenced by the plowing up of the house where I spent my formative years. I assume that, if your church is like the one I now serve and most churches of our denomination, your attendance is dwindling a bit and the meeting of the budget is challenging. When you’re discouraged, Brother Dalton, please remember my Daddy and his buddies and those quarters they threw into the foundation of that church.

As long as you don’t destroy the foundation of that church you’ll never go broke.

A Wonderful, and Haunting, Reunion

It happened many years ago, more years than I like to admit. It was the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of my graduation from high school. The old leaders of the class were still leading. They’d tracked me down. Now, they’d invited me to come and be a part of the celebration, the reunion, the remembering.

I recall those typical feelings everyone gets about going to such events: Did I still look in shape? Would that old flame be there; if so, was she married? If she was married was her husband successful? And did she ever wonder how things would have worked out if we’d stuck together? There was only one way to find out. The cost was a bit much, but it included a lot, all of which they read out to me: supper, hotel discount, band, dancing, open bar, all those things.

At the time I was a single parent. There was no regular girl friend. Who knew what the evening might bring? “Yeah,” I told the coordinator, “I’d love to come.” (Maybe Linda Smith would be there.)

Then the kicker came. “We heard you are a preacher.”

“I am.”

“Listen, since you’re a pastor, would you be willing to open the activities with prayer.”

“Sure,” I automatically said. After all, I’d prayed over a lot of things in my time: football games (I really pissed some people off the night I prayed for the home team to win.), the Rotary Club, a horse; why, I was the one who prayed at the ceremony for the erection of the flagpole at the grave of General Longstreet. But this was the first time I’d been asked to pray over what I was sure would become a drunken bash.

I worked hard on that prayer. I stood before the assembled group, mike in hand and prayed. Here's how it went:

Dear God, we come to you tonight with grateful hearts. We are grateful for the crow’s feet at the corner of our eyes; they show we have laughed a lot. We are thankful for the gray that sprinkles our hair; it’s a promise that we are obtaining wisdom. For the aches and pains of our age we give thanks to you for we are reminded of our mortality. Thank you, Lord, for this time together. Let this night remind us of our youth that we might dream our dreams again and look forward to the future with eager anticipation. Be with us in our frivolity tonight; laugh with us; remember with us; and, dance with us. Forgive those couple of sins that are about to be committed. And, Lord, I beseech you, please, this night, give me the courage to finally ask Ellen Snyder to dance with me. Amen.

Later that evening, after the feast, as I sat talking to an old buddy, there was a tap on my shoulder. I looked around and there stood Ellen Snyder. She was in a blue dress with just enough cleavage  to challenge my ability to look her in the eye. But I managed. Her blue eyes cut deep into my being as they had when I used to secretly admire her during study hall. She was so beautiful then. She was so unapproachable, then, a goddess. And I, well, I was me.

“Well?” she said.

It took me a moment to gather my wits and to fight off that old adolescent trembling that came over me whenever Ellen was around. But I was a man now. I cleared my throat, forcing the lump downward. “Would you honor me with a dance?” I asked in my most Southern gentlemanly way.

“I would be delighted,” said she, with that smile that dazzled legions.

She took my hand. She led me to the dance floor. I don’t remember the song that was playing. It was a fast dance, I know. And it was one of the oldies from those youthful years, I'm sure. I prayed I’d not trip on my own feet. We finished that dance, and, as I made ready to lead her back to her table, she said, “Let’s dance some more.”

Another song from the days of our youth played. As we danced this dance we talked for a while. She told me of her husband, a doctor, of her children, of some memorable events in her life. I briefly shared part of my story. The song ended. We separated, but she didn’t let go of my hand.

“Oh, hell, one more,” she suggested.

“One more,” I echoed, feeling a bit of those old feelings I used to get when she sat beside me in study hall. One more? A thousand more would be fine with me.

This song was a slow one also. And this time we danced close together. I was conscious of her body as I held her as close as good manners would permit. I felt her warmth. Her head was on my shoulder. And, as the last verse of the song was playing, she reached up and gently nibbled on my left ear lobe.

My heart stopped beating on its way to my throat.

“You should have asked me to dance twenty-five years ago,” she whispered.

The music ended. I walked her back to her table as a tidal wave of varying emotions washed over me. She introduced me to her husband. I thought how lucky he was.

As the evening wore down, I kept glancing over at her. Mostly, she was busy laughing and talking with those at her table, the group I was never part of. But when the call for the last dance was made, she looked over at me. Her index finger crooked back and forth as she summoned me. And I, like the middle-aged teen I had once again become, stumbled quickly across the floor. Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to say to her husband, “May I?”

When he nodded graciously, Ellen and I made our way to the dance floor again. We danced without talking. We held each other close. To this day I can smell her perfume and feel the gentle brush of her hair. The music stopped. She looked up, and kissed me passionately on the lips, her tongue and mine dancing their own dance for a moment, and said, “Good bye, preacher.”

“Good bye,” I said.

I’ve never seen Ellen since that night, twenty-five years ago. But sometimes, when I’m back home, I drive down the street where she lived and cannot help but wonder of what might-have-been.

It’s a trait of the human condition, is it not? So often we fail to see the wonderful possibilities that are sitting right beside us.

An Important Meeting

Ring! Ring! (Actually it wasn’t ring, ring, but spelling the sound of the cell phone is impossible.)

“Hello.”

“Hello; it’s me.”

“Me? Who’s me?”

“Me, your grandson.”

“Well, hello, grandson. Which grandson are you?”

“You’re doing what you always do. You know who this is. I’m Al.”

“What’s up, Al?”

“Not much. How’s Penny?”

“Penny is doing fine. She’s out in the woods behind my house right now.”

“What’s she doing in the woods?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s chasing a deer. Maybe she’s sniffing everything.”

“Yeah, Jack is always smelling things.”

“Well, how is Jack?”

“He’s doing good. He’s probably waiting for me to get home and let him out of his cage.”

“Well, I hope you get home soon.”

“So, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“When is your birthday?”

“My birthday is in December. In fact, it will be two months from this Sunday.”

“How old will you be?

“Too old.”

“How old is too old?”

“Three-fourths of a century.”

“How old is that?”

“Really old. Ask your Dad. How old are you?”

“I’m ten.”

“No, you’re not. You’re eight.”

“No, I’ve had two birthdays since I was eight.”

“Oh, my goodness, you’re growing up. Al, I’m wondering why you’re calling me in the middle of a school day on your Dad’s cell phone.”

“This isn’t my Dad’s phone. He messed his up and has to get a new one. I’m calling on my Mom’s cell phone.”

“Why are you calling on your Mom’s cell phone?”

“Cause, she left it here?”

“Where is here?”

“Her room at the school.”

“You’re in your Mom’s room at the school? Why aren’t you at your school.”

“‘cause, I’m not in school today. It’s a teacher work day.”

“Oh. Your Mom let you use her phone to call me?”

“No, she doesn’t know I’m calling you. She’s not here.”

“Your Mom isn’t there? Where is she?”

“She’s in a meeting down the hall.”

“Al, I’m just wondering: Why didn’t you go to your Dad’s school. It’s a teacher work day there, too.”

“I couldn’t go to my Dad’s school because he was going to be in a meeting.”

“But, you said your Mom’s in a meeting.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“If they both are in meetings, why are you at your Mom’s school and not your Dad’s?

“Well, I think my Dad thinks his meetings are more important than my Mom’s. I have to go now. She’s coming back.”

Click

 

Dizzy Dean Said If It's True It Ain't Bragging

I serve as pastor of a SMALL rural church in Northwest Georgia. Now when I say small, I mean small. Despite my oratorical excellence and my sound theology, I consider it an exceptional Sunday if there are fifty folks in worship. So, we are a small membership church, BUT ...

Sunday evening I completed the day by changing the sign in front of the church and displaying a banner. Here's the banner:

Here's the sign:

You see, this small church every Monday evening provides a free meal to anyone who wants to come in and partake, and, in addition, carries meals out into the community to homebound folks. (Full disclosure: we don't start serving the meals until 5:00 even though the banner says 4:30. We just can't afford to buy a new banner.)

The sign announces a free vaccination clinic for pets on Saturday of this week. In cooperation with the Echota Advocacy and Pet Rescue Group, this little church, twice a year, provides free vaccinations for anyone who brings their pets. The event starts at 1:00, but by noon there's a line around the church.

In addition, over the last decade this small church has sent members out on mission trips twice to Mexico, once to Haiti, Fiji, Peru, and twice to Appalachia.

Every year, on the Saturday before school starts, this small church, that conceived the project, coordinates, in cooperation with two other churches, providing every child certified by the school systems' family advocates as being indigent with new clothes (shopped indivudually for each child whose sizes were supplied by the family advocates), a book bag, grade and indivudual school appropriate school supplies, and a haircut for the boys and a beauty treatment for the girls.

Over the last ten years this small church has sponsored three transitional houses for homeless women with children, has sponsored a missionary family to Peru, opened the church to a community yard sale for anyone who wants to buy or sell without any charge to the participants, allowed youth bands to have secular rock concerts in the church, established a policy of helping anyone in need who comes to the church for help (Our philosophy is if they are ripping us off it's God's problem.). And joyfully welcomed anyone who wants to come to be part of the fellowship, regardless of their sexual orientation, religious background, race, or ability to sing on key during the hymns.

Each year, on the first Saturday in February, the church sponsors a Women's Retreat that attracts ladies from up to three states to hear the outstanding speakers, to join in the singing and fellowship, and to gobble up the food.

Wait! Did I mention the scouts? How about feeding the local football team before the Friday night game? The annual community Easter egg hunt. Did I mention that all of the above is done in a spirit of service and not evangelism?

The day I retired, Bishop Lindsey Davis asked me to fill-in at this church until he could find someone to appoint here. Two bishops later, I'm wondering if I had pissed Bishop Davis off and he was getting even.

You know, I've been attributing my flagging energy at the end of the day to my age. But after listing the above, I'm of the mind that the reason I'm sometimes tired is I'm the pastor of the BIGGEST LITTLE CHURCH in Georgia.

Now, I need to take a nap. There's no telling what project they'll come up with next.

Defending the Mother Tongue

I try to be as professional in writing this blog as I can. I make every attempt to tell an interesting story, to not dwell too much on my pet peeves, and to write things others are not writing. I also make a good effort to use correct grammar, punctuation, and other use of the English language.

There’s a bit of pressure on me to use correct English. I’m the father of an English teacher. And I know, at least from time to time, he reads these epistles. As such, I’m really careful. When I do have a question, I’m not too proud to ask my son’s advice. Recently, I did just that.

The advice I sought concerned the proper place to use “who” or “whom.” I wanted specifically to know the proper usage in the sentence, “She had an uncle with (who or whom) I bonded. Being the good son that he is he responded promptly. His instruction clearly explained this to me. He gave me the him/he rule. So, in my sentence it would be: “She had an uncle with whom I bonded.” That’s because I bonded with him. And if I bonded with “him” then it’s “whom.” Now, in another sentence I might have said: “She had an uncle who had a nice car.” Okay, you see, “He” had a nice car. And if it’s “he” then I should use “who.”

I hope, my dear reader, this has clarified things for you. I’m sure you have, as I, pondered many times over the years when you should use who and when you should use whom. My prayer is that by relaying my English teacher son's lesson to you this will no longer cause sleepless nights.

But if you fear there might be future sleepless nights because of the who or whom dilemma relax. My son also told me that “whom” is now on it’s last leg. The common, modern, practice, he says, is to always use who.

What???

I beg to differ. Look, Mrs. Blalock was my high school English teacher. Mrs. Blalock told me it was important that one use the words who and whom in the proper context. With all due respect to my son, Mrs. Blalock lived a bit closer to the formation of the English language than he. (Please note I didn’t say “him.” You can thank Mrs. Blalock for that.) So, I need to meet my son at some roadside tavern somewhere between my house and his so we can discuss this further. I mean, are we going to have a memorial service for “whom” or just let “whom” drift away into oblivion without a whimper.

What’s next? Are we going to see the adaptation of spelling to conform to that of the teenagers today? O RLY!!  For those of you who are not teenagers, that’s text spelling for “Oh, really.” Don’t you dare reply: YA RLY (Text spelling for “Yeah, really”). Frankly, I think IRL (in real life) old farts as I need to hold the fort against the corruption of our mother tongue. IMO (in my opinion) we still need Mrs. Blalock.

The next thing you know my son will be telling me that it’s okay to end a sentence with a preposition. And I, along with Winston Churchill, find that a situation up with which I shall not put.

The Day I Was Truly Blessed

A long way back, so far back it was a previous century, I fell in love with a wonderful woman. We got married on a soccer field (hold that thought for a future writing). Who would have thought we’d ever get married. She was Roman Catholic. I was a United Methodist pastor. She was the Parish Administrator for an Episcopal Church. Maybe that was a good thing. We had it covered coming and going.

She had an uncle who I really bonded with. He lived in New York City. He, too, like she, was Roman Catholic. He was active in his church. He was really active. He was some big shot in the Knights of Columbus. This old country Protestant pastor didn’t understand the dynamics of that, but I was smart enough to realize he was somebody in his church.

He died. He left instructions that he wanted this old country parson to deliver the message at his funeral mass. And so, I headed north with my “Yankee” wife to celebrate, as I term it, the life and resurrection of this unique child of God.

At the wake, his priest approached me. “Pastor,” he said, after introductions, “would you do us the honor of reading this scripture?” He was wrong about whose honor it was. At the appropriate time I stood by his side as he handed me his Missal and pointed to the part I was to read. I did. And I did it nervously as I was truly a novice at this ritual.

The next day, I stood, again, by his side as he went through the ritual and covered the casket with the funeral pall. And then we led the casket down the center aisle of that huge cathedral side-by-side. I broke off from the procession at the first pew closest to the altar, next to my Roman Catholic wife who took my hand as she obviously sensed my nervousness.

The Father, along with the other priests who assisted him, proceeded through the liturgy of his faith with obvious compassion and love for this dear, dear saint of his congregation. And then he nodded to me.

Shaking like a leaf I walked to that high, high, pulpit. I delivered the message about my wife’s uncle, his life, his resurrection, and the promise his faith held for each of us. I walked down from the pulpit and seated myself beside my wife once more. Suddenly, I realized where I was sitting. I would be the first to go forth to receive the Eucharist.

Married to a Roman Catholic, this was not my first attendance at a Mass. When the appropriate time came, I walked forward, crossed my arms across my chest to indicate I was not Roman Catholic, and intoned the words, “Bless me, Father.”

The Father smiled. Before I knew what happened he stuck that wafer into my mouth and said, “You are blessed, my brother.”

I cried. I cried like a baby all the way back to my place in the pew. I understood the enormity of what had just happened. 

At the graveside, an older priest approached me. I later learned he was not without influence with the powers that be in the church. “Now, Pastor,” he said with a thick Irish accent, “let’s not be telling a lot of folks what the father did back there at the church. Some authorities might not understand.”

So, for decades I haven’t told anyone. But realizing how old I am now, and realizing the priest was at least ten years older than I, he, if he still lives, is beyond the retribution of any bishop. And I? I still remain the old country preacher who one day, in that really big, big, city, at the altar of that really big, big cathedral was blessed by a priest who was a walking definition of ecumenical.

And now I sit here wondering why we all cannot get along.

Viewing the Heavens

The parson was sitting on the concrete of his driveway. The driveway was steep, very steep, heading up a foothill, one that deters visitors. The parson is appreciative of that. Cool was the night, with a gentle breeze blowing. The computer had been powered down. The day had been a busy week. The parson sought solitude, a quiet moment, before setting the alarm to signal a repeat.

Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, sat next to the parson on his left. Princess Penny, Charlie Brown’s girlfriend and competitor for the parson’s affections sat in the same position on the parson’s right. All three stared into the valley below.

The lights of the traffic along I-75, as well as those transversing the interstate over the bridge of the highway that led to the parson’s church, gave evidence that despite the lateness of the night, activity still punctuated the rural county.

For a brief instance the clouds overhead opened a window to the moon’s glow. The parson looked up, staring at the orb that defined the night and the tiny lights of stars and planets that punctuated the emptiness of space.

The parson’s memory went back four years previous. He and Ms. Parson were wandering the wilderness of Wyoming and Montana after exploring Yellowstone. It was night. It was dark. They rode and rode and rode.

Ms. Parson was consulting a map by flashlight. The parson was driving, patiently awaiting some direction. “Ah, I think I made a mistake,” said Ms. Parson.

“What do you mean, you made a mistake?” asked the parson.

“Let me translate that for you,” she said. “We’re lost.”

It was dark that night. Somehow the word “lost” made it more dark. The parson looked at the fuel gauge. No problem. Sooner or later they’d get somewhere.

“Look,” proclaimed Ms. Parson, “there’s a sign for a lodge. We could go there to get directions. Take a right.”

The parson took a right onto a dirt road. About two miles up the dirt road it got smaller, much smaller. Another half mile brought them to the creek that had to be forded. The parson made a decision. “We’re going back to the highway.”

With the precision of an accomplished circuit rider, the parson managed to turn the car back in the direction they’d come. It was halfway to the highway when nature whispered to the parson. He stopped, put the car in park, pulled up the emergency brake and began to exit the car.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Taking care of nature,” the parson replied.

At a certain age, taking care of nature is one of the real pleasures left to old men. The parson was enjoying the pleasure when he looked up.

“Oh, my God, Lynn, get out of the car,” he said. “Look at this.”

She opened the door, exited the car. “What?” she asked.

The parson pointed to the stars, the thousands and thousands of stars, maybe millions of stars. So far from the lights of civilization were they none of the stars were hidden by human-created lights.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Look at them.”

Soon they both were laying on the trunk of the car, heads on the back window, staring at the vastness of space not visible from their driveway. They didn’t say a word. They just stared and marveled and worshiped.

“Look,” said Ms. Parson. The parson, startled, woke. Ms. Parson pointed to the sky. The morning sun was slowly closing the door to the the depth of space.

The parson remembered. He rose from the driveway. Charlie Brown and Princess Penny rose, too.

“You know, canine friends,” the parson said. “It may be time for me to go see the stars once again.”

Fall Arrived Last Sunday

Fall is here. It officially arrived last Sunday. Saturday’s pouring rain was the prelude that heralded her entrance. There were times during the summer she now pushes into the past when I thought she would never make her appearance. I should have known better she never fails to appear.

A gentle breeze lifted a few leaves from the tree in my front yard as though in praise of her coming. They danced in syncopated rhythm along the currents of invisible air, moving this way and that way but always, slowly, gently,  falling to the ground, daring me to remove them, mockingly aware their brothers and sisters would soon waltz down to take their place.

Early Sunday morning the chill embraced Fall’s coming. Seniors with thin blood debated pulling out the warmer clothes. The sun, hiding behind a blanket of clouds, refused to give combat to Fall’s arrival. The wind whispered the promise of air soon to be frigid. The pace of steps along one’s morning walk quickened with the freshness of the air. The dogs pulled upon their leash with a renewed effort, almost prancing in harmony with the change.

Fall visited again last Sunday morning. Birds now light upon the feeder not in expectation of seed, it seems, but to remind the one behind the window of shopping chores in preparation for what will come. Squirrels scamper along the limbs of the oak, twigs in mouth, in a building mood. Feral cats who visit daily for a ration of food begin to take long naps on the back porch, hinting the need of some towels, blankets, rags and such to comfort when the cold arrives.

Fall arrived last Sunday, as she always does, just as the blooms are completing their wilting process. The greenness of flowering shrubs now begins to diminish. The grass now finds little energy to reach toward the sky; even the weeds fight for survival with less eagerness. All nature is yawning in anticipation of a long nap, of restful slumber before the deep sleep of winter and the anticipation of resurrection.

Fall made her appearance last Sunday. Her very presence now calls for leaf blowers to be dusted, broom rakes to be made ready. Mulch beds eagerly await the new compost. Fall is prelude to the planning of indoor projects, of walls needing painting, closets needing pruning, books inviting reading, old friends needing calling.

Early Sunday morning, Fall arrived. I recognized her as I opened the door. She hinted at tasks needing to be performed. Following the morning walk on the first day of fall’s arrival, the protective clothes of the coming seasons were revisited. Sweaters shivered in anticipation of being once again held against the warmth of human flesh. Afghans, months ago packed away and stored, cried out to be unfolded and a catalyst of warmth on the looming chilly night.

Fall arrived last Sunday. Fall reminded me of the cycle of life, of the changing seasons, of the variations of nature’s imperatives. Fall arrived last Sunday, and I, an old, perhaps ancient, parson, am reminded of the cycles that make up the seasons of this thing called life. I’m reminded that Fall is but prelude for Winter’s arrival. Fall whispers to me that life will move at a slower pace for a few months and that in that time is the possibility of rediscovery.

Fall arrived last Sunday, I danced with her to the rhythms of the seasons.

One Up on Mr. Brokaw

Okay, Mr. Tom Brokaw, I saw you on the Daily Show With Jon Stewart the other night. It was good to see you pontificating on the ins and outs of the political happenings of our nation once again. Gracious, I've missed your daily presence since your retirement. After all, you life and my life have had so many parallels.

In so many ways, my entire life has been spent in a futile effort to catch up with you. With your birth being two months short of two years before mine, you have always, in so many ways, had a bit more maturity, a bit more experience, a bit more cultivation than have I. It's been a futile effort over the years to try and “catch up” with you.

You and I have shared so many common experiences. You were the oldest son. I was the oldest son. As such, both of us know the awesome responsibility of guiding and directing, inspiring and coaching the siblings that tagged along behind us. I wish I could have a personal talk with you sometime about the ups and downs of being the inspiration for younger siblings.

We both spent our earlier years during World War II. Your dad was in the Army. So was mine. You, as do I, remember the rationing, sitting by the big console radio listening to President Roosevelt's Fireside Chats. You, as do I, must remember the Korean Conflict. And you and I share the common experience of being evacuated from our schools in practice for the possibility of an atomic attack by Russia.

We had other common experiences. You dropped out of college. I did, too. But we both finished later at other institutions of higher education. We both started our carers in small towns. Our paths actually crossed once. If I remember correctly it was in 1966. You were working at WSB-TV in Atlanta. I was there for some reason that escapes me now. We passed in the hallway.

Gracious, it's amazing how much we have in common. We both have gone through life making our living with words. We both married beautiful women. You'll have to take my word for it that the women I married were beautiful. I don't have certification as you do since you married Miss South Dakota.

We've both written a couple of books. Yours did sell a few more copies than mine, but I refuse to let that change the fact of our common accomplishment. I notice that, in your retirement, you seem to be sought after as a person of tremendous wisdom who can provide insight into the issues of the day. The same is true of me. Although, while you're sought as a major news personality by network shows, those seeking my input tend to be grandchildren.

I guess it just shows that while we've shared the same events of life, you've been able to be a bit more polished, a bit more renowned, well, let's just say it: a bit more famous than I.

There is one area, however, I think I have you beat. As I mentioned, I saw you on The Daily Show With Jon Stewart. I noticed with that appearance we have another thing in common. We both have that extra weight around the waist so many of our age group possess. I don't know how to put this delicately. Look, give me a call. My diet is working.

One Dollar A Day

It had been a good day for the parson. He rose early, dressed, whistled for Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, to rise from his bed and get started on the day. The squeak of the front door being opened roused Princess Penny, Charlie Brown's girl friend, from her snoring while reclining on the living room loveseat. Both canines began to prance in anticipation at the door as the parson donned his warm up jacket.

Down the street they went, the dogs sniffing out the trails of whatever creatures had wandered out of the forest the night before. Turning left they headed east toward the abandoned logging road that meandered up the foothill behind the parson's abode. Once at the dirt trail the parson began his trot up the hill and into the forest, trot being a descriptive word as the parson's seven plus decades of life encumbered a once-remembered run. At the top of the hill the parson followed the trail back down the foothill toward his house. Charlie Brown and Princess Penny were not in sight, but experience said they were nearby. Arriving at the house winded and sweaty the parson beheld both canines waiting on the porch, tails wagging.

The parson stripped down in preparation for the shower. He stepped on the scales. Ba-Da-Boom!! Two pounds less than this time last week! He showered and dressed as he sang the Doxology to the tune of Chim Chim Cher-ee. Next stop was the study. There he spent the day, staying on task, until next Sunday's bulletin was almost completed, the sermon almost done, and needed emails answered. He felt good.

The late afternoon and early evening were spent delivering meals to the homebound in the community. Charlie Brown and his sweetheart accompanied him as those they visited delighted in the wagging tails.

Back home, the parson settled down to some entertainment. Powering up the computer he brought up Hulu. A feature caught his eye. “Living On One Dollar” the title read. The parson clicked on it and became entertained, delighted, and disturbed.

The documentary traced the journey of four friends in their twenties headed to rural Pena Blanca, Guatemala, with only a video camera and fifty-six dollars where they lived for fifty-six days. How do 1.1 billion people in the world live on less than one dollar a day? The young friends found out. Their video documentary reveals the hardships, the smiles, the hospitality, the openness, the willingness and desire to learn, the dreams, and the disappointments of these children of God, who despite their poverty, welcome the stranger, share abundantly from their meager portions, and make one wonder how we let the world remain in this condition.

When the program ended, the parson wrote a blog, encouraging everyone to watch the documentary, “Living On One Dollar,” and then encouraging everyone to go to Kiva and help change this situation.