Questing Parson

Discussing the End

The parson stepped down from his step ladder, took a few steps backward, and looked up at the sign in front of his church whose message he’d just changed. He nodded in agreement with himself that the spacing was okay. He smiled as he read the new proclamation: If you don’t go to church because of the hypocrites, worship here. We need one more.

As he was folding the little two step ladder, he heard a voice behind him. “Hello, Parson.”

The parson turned to behold Debra, a young lady just a few months short of being a teenager reading the sign. “I think that’s funny,” she said.

“I do, too,” replied the parson.

“Where’s your folks?” asked the parson, realizing school was still in session and she was alone.

“Oh, she’s at Dollar General,” said Debra as she pointed toward the store. “I asked her to let me off so I could talk to you.”

“You didn’t go to school today?” 

“No sir,” I didn’t. I’ve been at my aunt’s house in Tennessee. I spent the weekend up there to be with my cousin during her gymnastic competition. Mom, let me stay an extra day. So, by the time we got back it was really too late to go to school. So here I am.”

“Well, walk with me while I put this ladder up, okay”.

“Okay,” she said. “Look, I can carry the ladder.” And she darted around the parson to take charge of the ladder.

Ladder placed in its place, the parson said, “So Debra, was there something special you wanted to talk about? Is it serious?”

“It’s serious,” said Debra, averting her eyes from the parson and toward the ground. Her voice was just above a whisper.

“Well, let’s go sit on the porch,” suggested the parson.

Sitting on benches facing each other, the parson continued, “What’s up?”

Debra stared at the parson. The parson noted how watery her eyes were and knew what was coming.

“My mom told me they announced at church Sunday you are dying.”

“I am,” said the parson.

“I thought that new drug and your operation killed your cancer.”

“It did,” said the parson, “but there must have been some microscopic cancer cell that they missed, and now that cell has multiplied and multiplied.”

“Why don’t they cut it out and give you some more of the new drug?”

“They can’t cut it out, Debra, because of where it is inside me. And the drug was only approved for the experiment. I am taking another drug, but I don’t think the doctors feel like it will work.”

Debra was silent a moment. She fidgeted on the bench as she stared at the concrete. Finally, she looked up. “Can I sit beside you?” she asked.

“Sure,” replied the parson as he patted a spot beside him.

She moved to the spot, settled back, rested her head on the parson’s shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it doesn’t hurt,” the parson said. “And if it ever hurts it will be only in the last few days. And my doctor will give me some medicine to take care of pain.”

“Will you have to go back to the hospital?”

“I don’t think so,” the parson said

She reached down and began rubbing the end of the parson’s shirt cuff between her thumb and index finger. She began to hum a song the parson did not recognize.

“But you’re my pastor,” she said.

“I’ll always be your pastor,” said the parson. “But I won’t be physically here much longer.”

“How much longer?”

“Some time between now and next October, or maybe a little longer than that, I’ll be going.”

“You know I’ll miss you.”

“I know you will. And as long as you miss me part of me will live.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You’re doing it,” the parson said. “You’re being my friend.”

Debra’s mother drove up to the bottom of the steps leading from the porch. “I guess she wants me to get in the car,” Debra whispered.

She removed herself from the bench and held her hand out to the parson. The parson took her hand and walked with her down the steps. Debra’s mother was looking out the driver’s side window, seemingly not wanting to talk. The parson opened the passenger door. Debra got in and fastened her seat belt. They began to drive away.

As the car was pulling onto the highway, the parson heard her yell, “I love you, Parson.”

How Do You Console the Widow of a Fallen Warrior?

The parson was sitting in his favorite diner, sipping a cup of decaf and reading a novel on his Kindle. Ms. Penny, his canine sweetheart, was visiting with some rescue dogs at the local pet rescue center.

As the parson touched the screen to move to a new page, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning he beheld another pastor from a nearby town. “Howard, how are you? I haven’t seen you for a while. How are the wife and kids?”

Howard caught the parson up on the antics of the children and the educational endeavors of his wife, as the parson directed him to sit across in the booth.

Betty, one of the servers approached, “Can I get you anything?” She asked of Howard. Howard hesitated.

The parson intervened, “Yeah, you can get him something,” he told Betty. “Bring him a slice of that apple pie and plop a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on it. And give him a mug of that special brew of coffee.”

Betty turned away as Howard began to make protest. 

The parson and Howard exchanged gossip about various elders serving in their area, the excitement around the conference over the new bishop, and other such preacher things.

After Betty had placed the pie with ice cream and a cup of coffee in front of Howard, he dipped his spoon into the ice cream and pie and made an audible sigh. The parson smiled.

Howard said, “So, Parson, what do you think about all this flap over the President not calling the widows of the fallen soldiers?”

The parson thought long. He took a deep breath and, then, said:

“Okay, Howard I’ll share my thoughts. First, the President waited too long to call. It’s inexcusable. But as much as I’m not a Donald Trump fan, I understand why it took so long. I also understand why he botched it in the end.

“Let me share a story with you. I had two good friends in college, Daniel and Julia. They were special. I loved to be with both or either of them.

“Daniel, was very patriotic. After college he went into the Army as a Lieutenant. He fought bravely in Vietnam. He received several citations. He was a hero. I remember him writing me one time and telling me how much he missed Julia. He shared with me some of the horrors of war. But, he confessed, it was what he’d volunteered for.

“Daniel came home after his first tour. I can’t remember how long he was home, but I know it was long enough to get Julia pregnant. And then he went back for his second tour.

“My memory is fuzzy. But I know he never got home before the baby was born. It was a boy. Julia invited me over the day she got home from the hospital and I helped her hang some of those baby things over the crib. I remember holding the baby while Julia did some Julia stuff in the kitchen. You know, Howard, to this day I can remember the smell of the baby.

“Strange, even with my fuzzy memory, I remember it was a Tuesday afternoon, a year or a year-and-a-half after the baby was born, when Julia called me. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘please come.’

“I headed to her house. I was the first one there after the two soldiers had come to tell her of Daniel’s death. The hero was dead. Julia’s heart was broken. A newborn baby had no father.

“Here’s the thing, Howard. I was a pastor. I had been certified in pastoral counseling. And when those two soldiers left I had not the foggiest idea of what to say or what to do.

“I took care of the baby. I made some supper, knowing no one would eat it. But I had to do something. Finally, darkness slowly closed the door to the sky. The baby slept. Julia and I sat on the sofa.

“‘Julia,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what to say.’

“‘There’s nothing adequate you could say,’ she said. ‘Daniel knew what he was doing. But this is so unfair.’

“I can’t remember any more of the talk that night. I know the television was on but I don’t remember any sound. Finally, in the quietness and the limited light I heard Julia’s voice, ‘Will you hold me?’

“She put her head on my shoulder, I wrapped my arms around her. She started weeping, hysterically weeping, body shaking weeping, snot coughing weeping. ‘Damn him. Damn him.' Her fists pounded my chest. 'Oh, I love him.’ The tears puddled in that little space formed by my clavicle until it filled and the tears ran down my chest with a tickle. She cried. She beat on my chest. She cussed Daniel again and again. She professed her love for him again and again.

“I don’t know what time it was. But eventually, well after the sun had risen I woke. She was still asleep on my shoulder. My arm hurt like something else, but it was nothing to her pain. My shirt was soaked with tears.

“She woke. She raised up. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ I said. 

“She sat up straight. ‘Do you know what’s going to happen next?’

“‘I do,’ I said. I explained the protocol of Daniel being brought home with honors. I told her about the military honors that were due him should she want them. I told her she would be given a flag from a grateful nation.

“I don’t know how long I stayed that day, Howard. All I know is that in all that time I was with her that night, and in all the days that followed, I didn’t know what to say to her. 

“So, Howard, I’m going to cut the President a little slack here. No one knows what to say to the widow or widower of a fallen warrior. There’s nothing appropriate to say. 

“Maybe all of us should just lift our prayers of gratitude to the Lord for a fallen warrior. We don’t have anything we can say to the widow or the widower. But we can be with them in their grief. I think that’s the most we can do."

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.

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.

Encounter With a Bishop (Part 3)

The final installment of a three part blog.

 

As the bishop continued his call, the parson continued his travel down Memory Lane.

Strange, the parson seldom agreed with anything this bishop did. The parson didn’t particularly like his theology. Nor did he like the bishop’s administrative style. Often the parson felt the bishop was surrounding himself with empty suits who told the bishop what the bishop wanted to hear.

Strange, as much as the parson was the opposite of the bishop on so many things, as much as the parson disagreed with the bishop’s style, he somehow found himself delighted to be sitting at the table with him. In fact, when the bishop had greeted him the parson was genuinely filled with joy. The parson mulled it over in his mind.

Then, it came to him. When the parson had been taken to the hospital for open heart surgery this bishop was beside his bed when he woke. When the parson had surgery on his carotid artery, this bishop, while in another state, called him several times to check on him. When the parson’s wife died, this bishop was on the phone to him within an hour and had the check for funeral expenses delivered to the parson within three hours. A few weeks later this bishop stopped by the parson’s church to make sure the parson knew people cared.

Funny, this bishop, so misguided in his theology to the parson’s mind, so heavy handed in his episcopacy to the parson’s view, was the parson’s pastor. The parson remembered telling a younger pastor that being a good pastor was ninety percent presence.

The bishop concluded his call. He put the phone in his pocket. “Sorry, for the interruption,” he said. “One of my pastors is having a hard time of it.” He reached across the table, touched the parson's hand and said, "I wish I could have been there for you when Ms. Parson passed. Tell me about her."

The parson smiled as he said a silent prayer that someday one of his parishioners would be as happy to see him as he was to see this bishop.

 

Encounter With a Bishop (part 2)

This post should be read in conjunction with the previous one.

The parson smiled at the memory of this bishop, now ordering breakfast from the server, appointing him to his current church. At the same time memories of other interactions and such flooded the parson’s mind.

Way back in the last century, shortly after this man across the breakfast table, had been elevated to the episcopacy, a pulpit came open. The parson did not know what factors led to the decision, but this brand new rookie bishop appointed the parson to that church. It was his first appointment as a bishop. In some peculiar way it bonded the two. About eighteen months later the church paid off its debt on a new building and this bishop dedicated it. It was the first building he’d dedicated.

The bishop’s cell phone rang. He looked down at the phone and asked the parson to excuse him. It was a call he needed to take.

The parson continued to travel down the hallway of memory as the bishop talked to some official. The parson remembered the time the bishop had called him and asked, “Parson, if “The Church Beside the Park In the Big City” came open would you be interested in becoming the pastor? The parson smiled at his remembrance of how ludicrous the question was. Why would a bishop call him with such a hypothetical question? The parson told him he’d be open to this. The bishop said he’d get back to him.

A week later the bishop called back. He instructed the parson to inform his people he was moving to “The Church Beside the Park In the Big City.” The bishop asked the parson if he wanted to know what the salary was. The parson said, “That wasn’t necessary. He’d go where he was sent.” The bishop complimented the parson on his attitude. The parson refrained from telling the bishop the earliest memory in his life was crawling up the steps in the Education Building of “The Church Beside the Park In the Big City.” Nor did he tell the bishop that church had been his grandmother’s church.

“I think this church will be a good match for you,” said the bishop.

“I think you’re right,” the parson responded.

-       Part Three continues tomorrow.

Encounter With a Bishop (part 1)

The parson took a few days off and headed for another city a few states away. The parson’s son’s dance company was performing there. The son traveled around the globe a couple of times each year, and a few states away provided an opportunity for the two to get together.

It was this occasion that brought the parson to the restaurant in the hotel early in the morning. He was enjoying a tremendous breakfast as he read the news on his Chromebook.

“Parson,” called the voice, “how have you been?”

The parson looked up. Then he slammed the Chromebook shut and bounced to his feet. Before him stood a bishop under whom he’d served for over a decade. “Bishop,” proclaimed the parson. “How are you? You had surgery recently.”

“I’m fine, Parson. Really good. I got your card; and I appreciated it. Sit down. May I join you?”

The parson motioned toward the chair opposite his place. The bishop sat and as the

“The question, Parson, is how have you been; I mean how have you been since you lost Ms. Parson?”

“I’m getting back on track,” the parson replied. “It was tough for a while, but I’m back together for the most part.”

“I hope so,” the bishop said. “And how’s that church you’re serving?”

The parson’s memory drifted back to the day he’d signed his papers for retirement. He’d stepped into the hallway at the denomination headquarters as the bishop stepped from the conference room across the hall. The bishop had grabbed the parson by the arm and asked him what town he was moving to. When the parson told him, the bishop’s eyes opened wide and he asked the parson if he’d supply the pulpit at the church the parson was now serving. The parson informed him that in the 1970s he been the pastor of that church. The bishop’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. He turned to walk away. About fifty feet down the hall, the bishop turned back and shouted to the parson walking in the opposite direction, “Wait, did you say the 1970s?” The parson nodded. “Well, hell,” said the bishop, “everybody who hated you back then is dead.”

-  Encounter with a bishop continues tomorrow

The First Task Is to Make the Bed

The parson pulled his car into the parking lot at the recreation area of Fort Mountain State Park. He, along with Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, and Charlie’s girlfriend, Penny, more appropriately addressed as Princess Penny, had been hiking the trails that wrapped around the mountain, skirting the overlook as well as “The Wall” an ancient worship site for pre-historic Native Americans. It had been a long, long, hike, but was one he took every October 3rd and would continue to do so until his age prohibited it.

Opening the rear driver-side door of the car, the parson affixed a leash to each of the dog’s hiking harnesses. Both then jumped from the car, and, knowing where they were, did not wait for the parson’s directions. They headed to the beach of the lake, tugging on their leash, waded into the water up to their necks and began to lap. Though it was a fall day, the long, long hike had accentuated their thirst.

Thirst quenched, they emerged from the water and in unison shook the water from their hides. The parson smiled then turned to walk, both dogs followed for a moment and then decide to take the lead, once again knowing their destination. That target was the dumpster behind the pavillion where the parson deposited the bag of litter he’d picked up along their hike. Thankfully, this time it was a small bag.

As the parson began to return to his car he heard a familiar voice, “Hey, Parson, hey, Parson; I’ll be darn; who’d think I’d run into you this afternoon.”

Hello, Greg,” the parson greeted. Greg Halloway, a friend who served a church a few counties east, had been a friend of the parson for several decades.

“It’s really good to see you,” said Greg. “How have you been?”

“Good, Greg, really good. It’s great to see you. How’s Karen?”

“She’s doing really well, Parson. We’re both excited over becoming grandparents. I don’t think I’ve told you, but William, the oldest, and his wife now have a beautiful granddaughter. You should see her. She’s precious.”

“I bet she is,” said the parson. “I bet she is.”

Greg pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Charlie Brown and his girlfriend, Penny, both simultaneously plopped down on their stomachs as if in anticipation of a serious discussion about to begin. “Parson, I want to apologize. I wasn’t there for you. I mean, when Lynn died, I just wasn’t the person I ought to be in supporting you. I didn’t come to see you and, worse than that, I didn’t even call. I guess I’m telling you this because, well, Karen and I noticed on your blog this morning that it was Lynn’s birthday. And that made us feel really bad.”

The parson motioned Greg over to a picnic table. Charlie Brown and Princess Penny, both with moans of resentment, followed. Greg and the parson sat down on opposite sides of the table.

“Greg, I really appreciate your words. And I want you to know there’s no reason for feeling guilty about this.” The parson and Greg then entered into a conversation where the parson talked about his experiences with death and mourning after the loss of two wives. He shared with Greg his realization that folks felt awkward in trying to “be there” for friends who were in mourning, how that introduced feelings of inadequacy and fears of mortality. He shared with Greg the inadequacy of any words that might be spoken. As the conversation progressed he talked to Greg of the complete inadequacy of words and the healing of presence.

“I don’t know how you do it, Parson,” said Greg. “I mean, death is such a final thing. And you’ve lost two spouses. How do you do it?”

The parson smiled, “Well, Greg, there comes a point after the death, when you get up in the morning and you make your bed. That’s the turning point, Greg. Every morning, now, I make my bed. I make it military style. You could bounce a quarter on the covers. I make the bed, Greg, to signal to myself the night is over and a new day has begun.”

Physicians and Healers

Dear Dr. Pittman:

A little birdie told me you read these little epistles. It may surprise you to see your name at the top of this one. There's a reason –

I've been in counseling, grief counseling, with two folks who lost their spouses in the last few months. In the course of my conversations with them, I've been shocked at the utter lack of compassion on the part of some. Such as one relating her doctor told her, “You'll get over it in time.”

I just wanted to write this to let you know you're a special breed. You probably don't remember my visit for my regularly scheduled checkup a couple of months after Ms. Parson died. I'll never forget it. When I arrived at your office things went as they normally do. I sat down in the waiting room to read on my Kindle and to listen to the religious music you always have playing on the speakers. (We need to talk about that sometime.) After a short while, a very short while in doctor's office minutes, they called me back. Your nurse took my blood pressure and asked me if I was still taking the same meds. I told her I was. And she took me back to the examination room. That's when it got different.

You walked in. You sat down. And you said, “Let's talk. Some things are more important than your blood pressure or cholesterol levels.” And you talked to me. You talked to me for forty-five minutes. You invited me to tell you stories about Ms. Parson. You shared your memories. And you know what, Doctor? I left there much more whole than when I walked in.

It's been about two years to the day since that visit. Funny, the pastoral counseling with the others would bring that day to memory right now. But I just wanted to thank you for that time, that day. You know what I mean – the extra time; you never take forty-five minutes with a patient unless it's serious.

There's a difference in you and some other doctors I know. You as well as them have the initials “M.D.” behind your name. You as well as they are physicians, licensed by the state to practice medicine. The difference, Dr. Pittman, is why I drive twenty-five miles one way to see you. The difference is you are a healer.

Beyond the Headlines

One was standing; one was sitting, leaning back on a large backpack. Beside the reclining one were two dogs, both brown in color, well groomed and, as the lack of a leash indicated, obedient. They were at the top of the southbound exit of I-75 at Highway 53. The one standing held a neatly printed with majic marker sign that indicated their need of food. The driver of the car in front of me stuck his hand out the window. It held some bills. The one with the sign nodded his appreciation as he also spoke obvious words of gratitude. The light turned green. The traffic moved. I hoped the fellow had given him a twenty.

Down the expressway, on the same day, speeding along, I noticed her. She was standing near the fence that marked the border between the interstate right-of-way and the pasture. Her little girl stood beside her. They both watched intently at the man, whose pickup truck was parked a bit in front of their minivan. He was on his knees, twisting with effort to remove the lugs holding the flattened tire. They were seen only for a moment as I whizzed by, but it was long enough to note they were hispanic and he was not.

He pulled into the church parking lot, got out of his car, introduced himself and said, “I live up in Ellijay. Wow, that tornado really made a mess of things. I thought I'd bring a truckload of good clothes down so you can give them to anyone who needs them.”

He's in his late seventies. While a non-assuming man, he is large of stature. His caloused hands witness to long hours of physical toil; the tan face speaks of a life outside. The confidence spewed forth in his demeanor, his giat, his mere presence shout success. It's late afternoon as he approaches the white frame house located in the western corner of the county. He knocks. The doors is opened by a smile that possesses a fourteen-year-old boy. Inside, the mother greets him and then disappears into another room. He and the fourteen-year-old sit down at the kitchen table. The math book is placed to the side. The boy slides a graded test paper from the pages of the book. They both smile. And then after a high five they get to the task of learning how to balance algebraic equations. It's a weekly occurrence. It's a boy who won't drop out; it may be a life saved.

She's stands at the kitchen counter snapping green beans which are then placed in the pot. The potatos are then prepared, the chicken then baked. And when it's all complete it's placed in a picnic basket which is carried to the car. She drives a good fifteen minutes acorss the county on her weekly trek. The basket of goodies are delivered to the widower. He's almost ninety. He lives alone, having out lived his wife and most of his immediate family. There are grandchildren but they live far away. He's grateful for her visits.

None of these things appeared in the paper. They didn't appear in the paper because they're not news. They're not news because they are normal events that happen every day. It is precisely because these are the normal things that happen in our days we as a people will always overcome adversity. Our story is not in headlines but the ordinary.