Questing Parson

A Very Important Question for an Eleven-Year-Old

The parson was heading into the Kroger, for his bi-weekly check of the seafood section. Pushing his cart through the various displays of cakes and other sweets, deli quality meats, and such, he approached the fish display. 

As he looked at the offerings for the day, Helen, an eleven-year-old who attended his church, stepped by his side. “Hello, Parson. Shopping today?”

“I am,” said the parson. “So, tell me, what do you think? Should I get one of these tilapia fillets or a fillet or perch?

“I really don’t know,” said Helen. “Aren’t they both fish?”

“They are,” said the parson.

“Well, in that case, I think you should get the cheapest because I know the church doesn’t pay you that much.”

“Okay,” said the parson, “tilapia it is.”

The parson gave his order to the lady behind the counter, and turned to Helen's mother who acknowledged his unspoken request that Helen spend time with him,  and then turned to Helen as he waited. “So, what brings you to Kroger in the middle of the day on a school day?”

“Parson,” said Helen, “it’s not a school day. We’re out for a teacher’s work day.”

The parson tossed about in his mind a question he’d have to ask his son, a school teacher. Why do they call it a teacher’s work day. Don’t the teachers work on all the other days? The clerk handed the parson his tilapia wrapped in brown paper with the price barcode stamped on the label affixed to it.

“Parson,” said Helen with a tone of seriousness in her voice. “Did you know that Sam had died?” The parson stopped in his tracks. Sam was Helen’s beloved dog. He turned to look at Helen, motioning another customer to go around him.

“No, I didn’t. What happened.” Then the parson said, “Wait lets go over to that little table and sit a minute.

Both seated, the parson said, “What happened.”

“We don’t know. We just went out last Thursday to feed him and he was lying on the back porch dead. The vet said he probably had a bad heart attack.”

There was a silence. The parson let it linger. Then he said, “Helen, tell me about the happiest time you can remember with Sam.”

Helen’s face brightened. She started a tirade of stories about Sam and the two of them romping through the fields, fishing together, sleeping in the same bed together. On and on the stories went. And suddenly, they stopped.

“Parson, I need to ask you something important.”

“Okay,” said the parson.

“Do dogs go to heaven?”

The parson smiled, reached across the table and placed his hand on top of Helen’s. Then he said, “I don’t think it would be heaven without our dogs, Helen.”

A Very Important Question for an Eleven-Year-Old

The parson was heading into the Kroger, for his bi-weekly check of the seafood section. Pushing his cart through the various displays of cakes and other sweets, deli quality meats, and such, he approached to display. 

As he looked at the offerings for the day, Helen, an eleven-year-old who attended his church, stepped by his side. “Hello, Parson. Shopping today?”

“I am,” said the parson. “So, tell me, what do you think? Should I get one of these tilapia fillets or a fillet or perch?

“I really don’t know,” said Helen. “Aren’t they both fish?”

“They are,” said the parson.

“Well, in that case, I think you should get the cheapest because I know the church doesn’t pay you that much.”

“Okay,” said the parson, “tilapia it is.”

The parson gave his order to the lady behind the counter and turned to Helen as he waited. “So, what brings you to Kroger in the middle of the day on a school day?”

“Parson,” said Helen, “it’s not a school day. We’re out for a teacher’s work day.”

The parson tossed about in his mind a question he’d have to ask his son, a school teacher. Why do they call it a teacher’s work day. Don’t the teachers work on all the other days? The clerk handed the parson his tilapia wrapped in brown paper with the price barcode stamped on the table affixed to it.

“Parson,” said Helen with a tone of seriousness in her voice. “Did you know that Sam had died?” The parson stopped in his tracks. Sam was Helen’s beloved dog. He turned to look at Helen, motioning another customer to go around him.

“No, I didn’t. What happened.” Then the parson said, “Wait lets go over to that little table and sit a minute.

Both seated, the parson said, “What happened.”

“We don’t know. We just went out last Thursday to feed him and he was lying on the back porch dead. The vet said he probably had a bad heart attack.”

There was a silence. The parson let it linger. Then he said, “Helen, tell me about the happiest time you can remember with Sam.”

Helen’s face brightened. She started a tirade of stories about Sam and her romping through the fields, fishing together, sleeping in the same bed together. On and on the stories went. And suddenly, they stopped.

“Parson, I need to ask you something important.”

“Okay,” said the parson.

“Do dogs go to heaven?”

The parson smiled, reached across the table and placed his hand on top of Helen’s. Then he said, “I don’t think it would be heaven without our dogs, Helen.”

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.

Thanks to Dr. Jay

Knock. Knock.

The parson pulled his hands from the soapy water of the sink, where he was washing dishes, and, while wiping his hands on a drying cloth, made his way to the door.

“What’s up?” he asked the teenage boy form across the street.

“Parson, can you help us?” asked the young man with obvious distress in his voice. “Mom was coming home from shopping and the puppy (their newly acquired ten-week-old rescue ) ran out to meet her. She didn’t see him. She ran over him. She’s really upset. And the dog’s really hurting.”

The parson headed across the street to his neighbor’s house. She was in a ball crying. Newly divorced, on her own, trying to make it by working two jobs and supporting a teenage son, the puppy was her one indulgence, a warm body to curl up in her lap when she came home, a living being that offered love with no conditions. 

Now the puppy lay in the shrubbery beside the driveway, yelping in pain, so much pain that when the familiar hand of the parson reached down he tried to bite. The parson covered his head with a cloth and looked at the injuries. Both back legs were broken, obviously. There was swelling in the lower portion of his underbelly. 

The neighbor, as is the case with so many single mothers, was on a limited budget. The nearest twenty-four hour emergency facility was forty-five miles away, and, the parson knew, the charges were outrageous. 

The parson called a staff member of a local vet clinic to get the number of the emergency facility and ask for advice. He explained the woman’s limited financial abilities. He was referred to a local vet who offered twenty-four hour calls for emergencies. The parson called. The charges were $99 to come to the home and examine the animal. After that the vet would determine future charges.

The parson made arrangements to bring the puppy to the vet’s local clinic. The parson knew what was the only outcome.

Arriving at the clinic, the neighbor let the vet examine her puppy in the back seat of the car. The vet, with care of lifting a newborn child, held the puppy to his chest, carried him into the clinic and began the examination.

Both back legs were broken. The left one was broken in several places. The puppy’s bladder had most likely ruptured. There was internal bleeding. The blood pressure was dangerously low.

The doctor, call him Dr. Jay, with a compassion that is so lacking in so many of his profession looked at the parson’s neighbor and gently, lovingly, told her the truth.

Five minutes later, Dr. Jay, after asking the neighbor to pet and talk to her puppy as he did what he had to do, injected the drug into the puppy’s system. 

Little Charlie, named after Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, closed his eyes and fell asleep. He was in pain no more. 

Little Charlie’s mother is a single parent trying to make ends meet. The parson pulled out the church’s credit card, handed it to the vet and said, "Charge the expenses on this."

The parson’s neighbor will be mourning for a while. She’ll miss Little Charlie. And she’ll feel guilty.

The parson will talk to her, comfort her, and rejoice. The parson will rejoice that he pastors a church that allows him to unconditionally provide for the expenses of those in need. And he will rejoice that this community is the home of Dr. Jay, a vet who is willing to get up in the middle of the night to care for the puppies in need.

Saving the Endangered

An Interesting Stranger

It was one of those days, cold but not heavy jacket cold, rainy but just a slowly, dripping mist. The parson and his faithful canine companion were on a morning walk. The breeze blew. No, the wind blew peppering the back of the parson's neck with the wet cold of the morning. He pulled the hood of his jacket up over the baseball hat. Charlie Brown paused on his walk to take inventory with his nose of other canines who may have passed that way. Inventory complete, he reclaimed the area as his own and the two proceeded.

Charlie Brown stopped just as he was about to turn a corner. His tail wagged slowly. The parson stepped up beside him. There, about twenty yards away, stood another dog on a leash held by a bearded man in an aged poncho. The man was leaning against a fence eating a piece of what appeared to be beef jerky. Both Charlie Brown and the dog now strained against their leash seeking to greet each other.

“Morning,” said the man as the parson drew closer. “Fine looking dog there.”

“Thanks,” said the parson. “Same to you.”

Charlie Brown and the man's dog were now wagging their tails in unison and glad to see each other.

“What's your dog's name?” asked the man.

“Charlie Brown,” the parson said.

“Good name,” the man replied. “May I?” He held out a pack of beef jerky and pointed it toward the dogs.

“No problem,” the parson replied. “What's your dog's name?”

“I call him Guide Dog.” The man tossed a piece of jerky to both Charlie Brown and Guide Dog.

“Guide Dog?”

“Yep, Guide Dog. I know it's kinda a funny name. But he's my guide.”

“How's that?” the parson asked.

“It's like this,” the man replied. “I'm just an old wanderer, as you can see. I once had this old preacher tell me I needed some direction in my life. Well, the next morning after he'd said that I woke up beside the embers of my fire from the night before and there said this old dog. So, I decided to let him give me direction. So, I let him guide me along the way. That's how he got his name. He guides me.”

“You just go where the dog goes.”

“Well, pretty much. I mean, I don't let him go places where he shouldn't go, but other than that if he wants to take a left at the intersection we take a left.” He pulled the jerky out of the pouch on his belt again, extracted a piece for himself and held the packet out to the parson. “Want some?”

“No, thanks,” the parson said. “How long have you had Guide Dog?”

“We've been road buddies for about three years now.”

Guide Dog had made his way to the parson's side. He knelt down and began to pet him. Charlie Brown came to stand between the parson and the visiting canine, allowing the parson to continue petting but making sure Guide Dog understood who belonged to whom.

The man spoke, “You're the parson, aren't you?”

The parson stood, puzzled. “Yes, that's what folks call me. How'd you know?”

“Well, I asked the clerk at that store over there,” he pointed over his shoulder, “where I could find a motel that would welcome Guide Dog. He said he didn't know but you would. He told me you'd be walking Charlie Brown down this way. So me and Guide Dog came looking for you.”

The parson asked, “What's your name?”

“Henry,” said the man stretching his hand out to shake.

“You're needing a place to stay?”

“I am,” said the man. “Oh, wait a minute. I'm sorry. We're not asking for a handout. I'm sorry. No, I just need to know if there's a hotel that won't mind if Guide Dog stays in the room. We need to get in out of this rain, My iPhone says it's going to rain for two more days. And, truth is, I need a good hot shower myself.”

“The La Quinta will let the dog stay,” said the parson. “Are you sure there's no way I can assist you.”

“Parson,” the man said, “look, I've got plenty of money. I've got some investments and they should keep me and Guide Dog well fed and healthy for as long as we want. Look, Parson, we just are outdoor creatures. We like wandering this way. But every once in a while we take a break and act like civilized folks.”

The parson told him where the La Quinta was located.

“How about a meal later?” the parson asked.

“Sounds like a plan,” said Henry, “but only if it's my treat.”

The parson and Henry agreed on lunch the following day. As they walked away, the parson said to Charlie Brown, “There's a story there, Charlie Brown.”

A Comeback

A visitor came today. Absorbed in preparation for Sunday, I don't know how long the was there before I noticed him. Maybe it was a sudden movement, whatever it was, I turned from the desk, looked out the window, and there he was.

Outside the window of my little study, there are a couple of ceramic plates secured on the top of posts along with a couple more with feeders. My visitor was studying them intently. I think he saw me and froze before hopping onto the feeder to feast upon the seed.

It was a bluebird. (Not the one in the picture. I didn't want to risk moving for the camera lest he fly away.) He kept cocking his head from side to side, from me to the seed, from the seed to me.

Back halfway through the last century bluebirds were everywhere. You see them now, here and there. It's not unusual to see one, but back then it was unusual not to see one if you walked a hundred yards outside.

My grandfather and I built birdhouses for them, drilling the entrance holes the precise diameter for bluebirds. Springtime brought the nesting, then the eggs, then the babies.

And then there were less and less of them. By the time I was in college one hardly ever saw a bluebird. The said it was the DDT, that synthetic pesticide so prevalent in those days. The bluebird was becoming extinct.

They're coming back. The bluebirds are coming back.

I watched him a long while. He finally hopped into the seed container. He had a feast. Then he hopped up onto the ceramic container with holding the water. He drank, and then he showered. And then he flew away. But he knows where the seed bowl is not. He'll be back, I bet.

I guess it's a sign of my old age, but there are a lot of things from the heyday of the bluebird I wish would make a comeback.

Charlie Brown to the Rescue

The parson and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, headed to the place of their morning walk. It was the nearby QuikTrip, American's finest convenience store and, in the case of this particular one, truck stop. Shortly after the parson found Charlie Brown lying beside the highway almost starved to death a short distance from the QuikTrip he began walking him there in the event his owner might come by.

Now, with the passing years, they both knew the previous owner would never come, but the walks were now habit. Besides, the parson is addicted to the QuikTrip Cappuccino.

On this day, a block before turning into the QuikTrip, the parson slammed on the brakes. Charlie Brown slid off the seat into the floor. He looked at the parson with a look similar to a tightwad church member responding to a request to minister to the destitute. The parson had braked for an obviously frightened dog who'd darted across the highway. The dog stood for a moment shaking in the median and then darted into the brush.

The parson and Charlie Brown followed their normal path around the outskirts of the large facility. The walk this morning was brisk. Charlie Brown was feeling playful. They'd almost completed the circuit when once again the parson saw the dog. This time Charlie Brown did, too. The hair on his back went up. He stared at the obviously confused and frightened animal. He didn't growl. Gradually, his fur when down and he continued to make his claim upon the property.

At the end of the trek, the dog was again seen. This time two employees of the QuikTrip were calling the dog. “Here, Puppy. Come on, Puppy. We won't hurt you.” The puppy did not believe them. He stood staring at them, shaking as he did.

The parson walked up beside them. “Sit, Charlie Brown,” he said. Charlie Brown sat.

“Come on, Puppy, come on,” they continued with snapping fingers.

“Maybe we could get a hot dog for him and he'd come,” said one.

The parson looked at Charlie Brown studying the dog. He realized the dog was also studying Charlie Brown. The parson knelt down and unhooked Charlie Brown's leash.

Charlie Brown walked over to the frightened dog. They checked each other out. Suddenly, Charlie Brown lunged in a forward motion down toward the ground bringing both his front legs on the ground. He tail beat a steady rhythm on the ground. And then it happened. The other dog lunged back. They both bolted off in a scampering play, chasing and lunging, sniffing and marking. After a few moments the parson whistled, “Come, Charlie Brown.”

Charlie Brown came, and with him came a happy puppy.

There was a phone number on the collar. The puppy's home was called. He was twenty-five miles from home. Charlie Brown walked with the puppy to the QuikTrip employee's car. The puppy was lifted into the vehicle. Charlie Brown watched the puppy and the puppy watched Charlie Brown as he left, headed back to his home.

Charlie Brown a few moments later jumped back into the parson's car, one Rescue having rescued.

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Truck Stop Tabernacle

The parson had made a miscalculation. He'd assumed, when he looked out the window upon waking, that the drizzle of rain would be accompanied by warmer temperatures. He was only partially right. The wind that brought the wetness delivered a chill that cut to the bone.

The chill did not seem to faze Charlie Brown, the parson's faithful canine companion. He jumped from the car in his usual excited way to make his daily pilgrimage around the outskirts of the Quik Trip, America's foremost convenience store and truck stop. The parson shivered in the unexpected chill, immediately wishing he'd brough a more substantial jacket.

Charlie Brown, however, had more pressing problems. It soon became obvious other canines had trespassed upon his daily trek. This resulted in his having to stop at every other bush to restake his claim to the territory. The exercise added to the normal time of walking the Quik Trip perimeter. The parson shivered all the more.

Two-thirds around the trek, the parson saw a familiar sight. In just a moment Charlie Brown signaled his recognition by his frantically wagging tail. The parson reached down and released Charlie Brown from his leash. Fifty yards ahead a trucker reached down and unhooked the Chocolate Lab from her's. The two bounded toward each other and just before they collided both turned northward into the open field. There they scampered and froliced.

The parson greeted the Lab's owner, Jake, a trucker from Wisconsin. Jake, the parson, Charlie Brown, and Jake's lab Sam (short for Samantha) had occasionally bumped into each other during the parson's trek around the Quik Trip. Jake was not the typical long haul trucker. He wore blue jeans and a dress shirt that were dry cleaner pressed. His cowboy boots were hand polished to a reflective shine. His rig was spotless. Jake drove routes between Milwaukee and Orlando and Milwaukee and Houston. Since his and the parson's schedules were fairly regular the two occasionally met here, which gave Sam and Charlie Brown an excuse to romp in the field and forest behind the facility.

As Jake and the parson stood watching their dogs the rain suddenly stopped and there was a break in the clouds through which the sun broke forth. The chill disappeared.

“I heard about Ms. Parson, Parson,” said Jake. “I'm really sorry for your loss. You know, that stain glass garden bench she made for us is still the focal point of the wife's garden.”

“I'd forgotten all about that, Jake,” said the parson. “I remember we were worried about you getting it there without scratching it up.”

“Well I made it. I'll think of her every time I walk by or sit on that bench. She was special.”

“She was, Jake, she was.”

Jake and the parson shared memories for a few minutes. The parson asked about his load and his trip. Jake talked about a mechanical problem he'd experienced near Nashville and how it seemed major but turned out to be a small thing. They talked about the recent snow and the differing reactions to it in Wisconsin and Georgia. The conversation paused for a long moment. Then Jake spoke again.

“I probably won't see you again, Parson. This is the last trip.”

“Seriously?” asked the parson.

“Yeah. I've been thinking about things. I need to spend more time with my family. And I can't do that hauling these loads. So I got a job with a large trucking company as an operations manager. Looks like I'm going to be an eight to five fellow from now on. I guess Sam and I will miss the road, but I don't think we'll miss the hassel.”

“I'll miss seeing you, Jake,” said the parson. “And Charlie Brown will miss Sam.”

Both men looked out over the field where Sam was crouched down in anticipation of bolting away with Charlie Brown chasing her.

“There's more, Parson.”

“What's that, Jake?”

“I'm entering the Course of Study to become a Lay Pastor. The district superintendent says he thinks he has a place where I can serve once I complete the study.”

“That's wonderful, Jake. That's wonderful.”

The parson and Jake talked a few minutes longer about the joys and shortcomings of serving in the church. Charlie Brown and Sam continued discussing the joys of running off the leash.

Then Jake said, “Will you pray for me, Parson?”

And the parson prayed. Suddenly the truck parking area of the Quik Trip became a Tabernacle.

It was only a few moments after the “Amen” that the parson whistled for Charlie Brown and Jake for Sam. And only a few moments after that the two bid farewell to each other, two circuit riders headed to their appointed rounds.

Hit Of The Family Night Supper

The parson sat in his office pondering a heavy question of ethics. He possessed knowledge that, one the one hand, should be disseminated to various members of his church. But, the dissemination of that knowledge could color the attitudes of those members toward another, or could in the case of a few could engender hostile feelings. The parson was stymied.

He sat back on the sofa and rested his head on the back. The stained glass window across from him glowed from the security light on the utility pole beside the parking lot. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, was curled in a ball beside the parson's now empty rocking chair, seemingly torn between watching for the parson's signal it was time to depart and drifting into slumber. The parson heard the distant voices of the people in the kitchen cleaning up from the Family Night Supper. Those people were part of the parson's ethical question.

It had begun when Florence, one of the sometimes homeless women who came to the soup suppers, decided she was part of the congregation. When word of the Family Night Supper rolled around, Florence made a decision to participate. Helen brought her fought-over squash casserole; Vivian brought her usual five bean salad; Alice plopped her secret recipe for an avocado dish with her usual fanfare of “Oh, I was so rushed today I just whipped something together.”

The table was full of dazzling dishes, delightful desserts, pitchers of tea and urns of coffee when Florence entered. She greeted the familiar faces from the soup suppers and bowed her head in a shy way when passing others she did not know. On the end of the table she placed her dish, whispering to the parson as she did so.

“Oh, Florence, that looks delicious,” exclaimed Wanda Carter in an effort to make her feel at home. “Let's put it up here with the other meats.” She moved Florence's offering to the proper place and then graciously introduced her to some other people.

The parson prayed the blessing and everyone formed a line to heap their plates full of the gastronomic gifts. Maybe it was a sign of the character of the church members, maybe it really did look delicious as Wanda had said; whichever it was, Florence's platter was emptied before half the people had an opportunity to select a piece.

The evening went well. Even those who'd not met Florence at the Monday Soup Suppers seemed pleased that one of “those homeless people” was taking part in the evening. And Florence endeared herself, infecting the people with her belly laugh at the appropriate times during the program. The evening was a smash. Florence walked out to her broken down Ford Ranger with her empty platter under her arm in the company of several members as though she was a charter member of the church.

It was shortly after her departure the parson bumped up against the ethical dilemma that drove him to his office to ponder his role as the moral leader of the church. As the parson walked through the kitchen where about five women and two men were cleaning up the conversation centered around Florence.

“I think it's wonderful Florence felt at home here,” said one.

“I do, too. And I must admit that dish she brought was delicious,” replied another.

“It was,” said one of the men. “I tell you from the texture of the meat I think that chicken was an open range hen.”

“Ah, now that you mention it,” said the woman at the sink, “that must account for the difference. I loved the flavor, but the texture was different.”

“You know, the parson said she lives in the outdoors in a tent. The woman is virtually penniless. I wonder how she manages free range chickens.”

It was at that point the parson retreated to the study to contemplate the ethics of sharing or not sharing his knowledge. And there he sat, as the members finished the kitchen police duty, unsure of what to do. He could not resolve his problem. In desperation he turned to Charlie Brown and said, “You know Charlie Brown, I'm not sure I know what a free range chicken tastes like. What do you think? Do you think I should tell them that Florence cooks up the best squirrel I've ever eaten?”