Today the Questing Parson has been expanded. Now there's a "Questing Parson at Salon" blog. This blog appears at Open Salon, a new feature of the nationally acclaimed Salon Dot Com's webzine. Questing Parson at Salon will address issues more secular than those on this blog. You can check it out HERE.
The
parson pulled into one of the “Visitors” parking spaces at the
Middle School. A teacher join him on the walk and they exchanged
pleasantries as they walked toward the front door. It was about 10:30
in the morning.
Entering the school the parson said his good-byes to the teacher who was heading to an appointment. He turned and entered the school office.
“Hello, Parson,” said the secretary. “I talked to Ginger's mom. Let me show you into one of the counseling rooms, and I'll go get her.”
She directed the parson to a small room with two love seats and an armchair. The pictures on the wall were losing their battle to keep away the feeling of clinical. The parson waited, passing the moments by studying the pictures, brushing a bit of lint off his pants leg, doing whatever he could conjure up to keep his mind off the task at hand.
It wasn't long before the door opened and Ginger was ushered into the room. As soon as she saw the parson her face went pale. “What's wrong, Parson?” she whispered as she edged into the room.
She crossed the small space and sat on the sofa beside him. He brushed a curl from her forehead and said, “It's your Pa-Pa. He's had a heart attack and is in the hospital. I told your mom I'd come and get you. Your daddy is on his way back home.”
Her lower lip began to tremble. Tears silently cascaded down her cheek. “He's dying; isn't he? That's why she sent you to get me.”
“It's very, very serious, sweetheart. Come on, let me take you to the hospital. The office will take care of all your school stuff.”
Together they walked out of the building. She, the so grown up in so many ways, held his hand with a little girl's dependence. The ride to the hospital was made in silence. Once there, the parson again held her hand as they proceeded toward the CCU waiting room.
The parson led Ginger to a seat in the corner. He walked over to the volunteer and asked to use her phone. Dialing the Chaplain's private number, the parson asked his friend to let the staff in CCU know he was back with the granddaughter.
Hours
before, shortly after breakfast, the parson had been called by
Ginger's mom. He'd rushed to the hospital and together they faced the
inevitable truth about her father. Ginger's Pa-Pa was an organ donor;
this was the only reason the machines still kept his organs
functioning. He would not survive. Ginger's mom and the parson spent
time in the hospital chapel. The parson had talked with Ginger's
father and promised he'd take care of things until her father could
return.
Ginger's mom came into the waiting area. She came over to the parson and hugged him. Ginger sat still on the chair watching them. She did not move. “Is she okay?” Ginger's mom whispered.
“No, not really,” said the parson. “I don't think she wants to hear you tell her what she senses you're going to tell her. So she's avoiding you. I'll go back and see your dad a moment. You spend some time with Ginger.”
“Should I take her back to see him?”
“That's up to you and her.”
“What would you do if she was your daughter?”
“I'd take her back. You've called everyone else to come and tell him bye. Why would you deny her that, if she wants to?”
They hugged again. She broke away and headed over to Ginger. Before she could settle herself in the seat Ginger wrapped her arms around her and the dam burst freeing the sobs and tears. The parson left them to their grief.
The parson walked to the concession area. He purchased a canned fruit drink and placed it in his coat pocket; then he purchased two cups of coffee and headed back to the waiting room, walking carefully lest he spill the liquid. Sitting the cups and can a coffee table he took an opposite seat. Ginger's head rested in her mother's lap. She was stroking her daughter's hair gently.
Ginger's mother continued stroking the hair while she updated the parson on the doctor's reports. “Ginger remembers that time we had the organ donation people at the church. She's glad we're doing this. Oh, I forgot to tell you. They have found a kidney match already. So, we're, we're .... Oh, Parson, this is so hard.”
Ginger raised her head. Now she reached up and stroked her Mom's face. And then she rested her head back in her lap. There was quiet in the room. Ginger's mom reached over to get the cup of coffee the parson had brought. She sipped it and made a face that expressed appreciation for the taste and warmth. No one said anything. The parson and Ginger's mother drank their coffee. Their cups had been empty for several minutes when Ginger raised her head.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I'm ready. Can the Parson go with us?”
Her mother nodded. They rose and silently the trio made their way back to see Ginger's Pa-Pa.
A half-hour later the parson and Ginger returned to the waiting room. They settled into their seats. Ginger opened her can even though the parson offered to get another one as this one was no longer cold. She took a sip, sat up straight, and asked, “Is Pa-Pa already dead?”
The parson thought a moment. “I don't really know the answer to that Ginger. His blood is still circulating and oxygen is going in and out of his lungs, but the machines are doing that.”
Ginger interrupted. “They're doing that because they have to keep his kidneys and organs working until it's time to take them to someone else.”
“Right.”
“So, how do we know if he's alive now or not?”
“I don't know, Ginger. But I do know that when they turn the machines off, just like your mom said, Pa-Pa will go to be with Jesus.”
Ginger nodded her head.
The day was spent with the parson alternating his attention between Ginger and her mother. Around dinner time Ginger's dad arrived. Shortly after that other family members gathered. Ginger spent time talking with her cousins. The parson was introduced to family members he'd not met before. Various family members went into the CCU at different times. Other times they rotated to the hospital cafeteria. After everyone had eaten and said gone back to the room each gravitated to a corner of the room where a family conference began. The parson led them in prayer and then slipped out of the group to let them talk. It had only progressed a few minutes when Ginger slipped from among them to sit with the parson.
Two doctors came into the room. They asked Ginger's mom and dad to join them in a family room. She suggested they talk there with all the family. It wasn't long until there was an agreement. Ginger's mom and dad came over to the parson and Ginger.
Ginger's mom knelt down beside her. 'It's time, sweetheart. They're going to turn the machines off now. Do you want to be there when they do?”
Ginger shook her head from side to side. The tears started again, no sobbing, just tears. “Can I stay here with the Parson?”
“Sure you can. Would you like for the parson to take you home? We'll be there is just a little while.”
“Yes.”
Ginger's mom looked to the parson. “Do you mind?”
“I'll see you at the house.”
The parson and Ginger were halfway home before she spoke.
“Parson, I think you're going to have to talk with me sometime. Maybe we can do it after the funeral. I can't figure out why if my Pa-Pa is going to heaven and we're Christians but I'm so sad it hurts. It really hurts.”
“Do you want to talk about it now?
"Not now, Parson. We can talk later. I think I will break if we talk about it now.”
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The
parson and his faithful canine companion Charlie Brown headed out for
their daily trek about the county. As usual Charlie Brown sat upright
in the back seat until the car was completely out of the driveway. In
sync with the parson placing the car in “Drive” Charlie Brown
eased himself down upon the seat to nap.
Arrival at the Pak Mail store roused Charlie Brown who remained upright until the parson had retrieved the contents of his box. Once again, in sync with the placing of the car into “Drive” he eased himself back down with a sigh and resumed his napping.
The ritual was repeated when the parson stopped at the grocery store, at the hospital and at a member's house. But arriving at the church, Charlie Brown altered his behavior. The car had not stopped when he roused himself. The parson stopped in the parking spot nearest the side door to the sanctuary. He exited the car and opened the left rear passenger door. Charlie Brown bounded out and darted the few feet to the church door where he promptly assumed a sitting posture.
The parson headed toward the church mail box on the side street that bordered the church. Charlie Brown continued to sit. A bad encounter with a truck long before had tempered his desire to accompany the parson to the street. Retrieving fourteen advertisements for religious activities the parson had no intention of mentioning to his church and one bill, the parson headed back toward the church and the waiting Charlie Brown.
The key slipping into the lock signaled Charlie Brown to assume the upright position. The opening of the door was for Charlie Brown what the opening of the gate was for a Kentucky thoroughbred. He darted into the sanctuary, made his way through the kitchen at a rapid pace which caused him to skid on the kitchen floor. Turning left through the Sunday school area, he bounded to the Study door whereupon he sat waiting.
The parson opened the door, placed the bill in the proper folder, tossed the advertisements into the trash and glanced at the phone. There were no messages. “Come on, Charlie,” said the parson, “let's go home.”
Charlie Brown bounded up and trotted through the church to assume his waiting position at the sanctuary door. The parson followed. Reaching the sanctuary the parson paused to take in what he'd noticed on entering. The altar table was off to the side; the pulpit was nowhere in sight; wadded pieces of paper decorated the front pew; an empty soft drink container sat on the piano bench; and an array of debris highlighted the floor. The parson stood fuming. The disrespect for the sanctuary by the teens who'd practiced their Christmas play the night before amazed him. He mumbled insensitive comments about the way they were raised and whether or not the adults would allow their house to be treated this way. He knew they would be practicing again that night so he made no effort to pick up.
As the parson reached for the door Charlie Brown jumped, literally jumped upward. The door seemingly opened itself. Into the sanctuary stepped Jeanette, the church custodian.
“Hello, Parson,” she greeted, with the usual smile on her face.
“Hi, Jeanette,” the parson replied. “As you can see this place is a mess.”
“Oh, yes,” Jeanette expressed. “Isn't this wonderful. You know a few years ago I didn't have to pick this stuff up. We didn't have a youth group to mess the church up then. God has really blessed us, Parson.”
The parson acknowledged her comment. He directed Charlie Brown to head for the car. The parson was in a hurry to leave. Repentance accompanied him and Charlie Brown all the way home.
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The
parson stood before the vegetable selections in the grocery store.
Something special needed to be prepared for the evening meal, but
inspiration was elusive. His mind was beginning to wrap around an
idea of a fruit concoction resting on a leaf Romaine lettuce, when
there was a tap on his shoulder. The parson turned and beheld an
eleven-year-old, hair down for a change and dressed in a dress which
announced rising sophistication.
“Hello, Ginger, are you shopping for supper, too?”
“Nope, not this time. Mom's picking up some stuff 'cause we're having company tomorrow night. She's over at the meat counter talking to that man about cutting her some special thing. I don't know. I'm not into cooking.”
“Well, I am,” said the parson. “Want to walk with me while I look for my fixings?”
“Sure,” she said.
The parson reached over and picked up three pack of healthy looking Romaine lettuce. He pushed his cart toward the fruit section. Ginger followed. The parson asked her about her favorites and selected those as the ingredients for what he'd put together. After picking a few fresh vegetables, the parson pushed the cart toward the canned fruits. He stood trying to decide on what size can of Mandarin oranges would be sufficient when Ginger changed to subject from food to church.
“Did anybody tell you about what happened Saturday when we took that stuff leftover from the yard sale to that mission place?”
“No,” said the parson, “no one said a word. What happened?”
“What happened is that lady, you know that lady who came to our church and asked us to give them what we didn't sell, well, when we got there she started showing us around the place.”
“That was nice,” the parson interrupted.
“No, Parson,” Ginger insisted, “it wasn't nice. That lady was, well, that lady was ....” Ginger took a deep breath. “Can we talk seriously here. I mean, I don't think I want to be very, what's the word, ah, oh yeah, diplomatic.”
“It's just between us,” said the parson. “Shoot.”
“The woman is either crazy or an idiot or that place is a cult, Parson.”
The parson placed three cans of Mandarin oranges in his cart, figuring since they were priced “3 for” he could find a use for the extra. “What was the problem with the woman?”
“Before we could unload all those clothes and stuff for her mission to use, she made all the men and me sit down and then she started telling us about some kind of spiritual laws. She kept telling us we needed to give our lives to Jesus. Well, I told her I had already given my life to Jesus and that's why we were there giving her that stuff.” Ginger took a deep breath. “Know what?”
“What?”
“My Dad turned around and told me to keep quiet. I mean he told me to keep quiet. There was this woman talking to us like we never heard of Jesus, and my Dad and the others just sat there like she was the first one who told them about Jesus. Holy Moley, Parson, the woman came to our church, our CHURCH, to ask us to give her mission that stuff. Our church, Parson. Exactly who did she think we worshiped?”
The parson smiled at her. “I'm glad you're clear on it, Ginger. Did you keep quiet?”
“Well, almost.”
“Almost?”
Ginger's lips began to curl into the little crooked grin she got when she was being mischievous. “When they were carrying the stuff inside and I was alone with her I asked her if she did that to everybody who came in there.”
“And?”
“She said that she asks everyone to give their life to Jesus before she gives them clothes or food.”
The parson knew there was more. He raised his eyebrows.
“So, I said they probably didn't want Jesus right then. They probably just wanted a warm jacket and some food.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn't say anything. My Dad came out and heard me. He put me in the truck and told me I was on restriction until Wednesday.”
The parson saw Ginger's mom at the end of the aisle. He pointed her out to his friend.
“Okay, Parson,” said Ginger, “I have to go.”
“I think you were brave to say that, Ginger. I'm sorry you're on restriction.”
“It's not a problem, Parson. You know that old saying.”
“What saying?”
“The truth makes you free.”
Ginger's skipping down the aisle betrayed her sophisticated dress.
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It was
a good Saturday at the parson's church. And yet, it was cold, not
bitter cold but that biting cold that comes from the first day the
temperature takes a journey south. The air was damp. The wind blew
steadily. The sky was dark with ominous dark clouds tumbling like
tumbleweeds of dirty cotton across the sky. But it was a good
Saturday.
The gathered saints backed tractor trailers to the door of the storage building. There the shoulder high depth of accumulated stuff – bags upon bags of discarded clothes and toys encircled by small appliances long ago outdated and a variety of other throw offs of a consumer fed economy – was loaded to be hauled across the open acreage that was the church yard. Sleepy eyed youth slung the components of hanger units constructed from 2x4s over their shoulders to assemble at appointed places across the grass.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee, eggs, bacon, and Krispy Kreame donuts floated across the area beckoning the laborers to come sit, eat, and fellowship a while. In the Fellowship Hall more youth darted here and there keeping the serving plates filled with nourishment. The adults, among the exchanges of jocular statements regarding certain absences and puzzled utterances over recent political results, made ready for a busy day.
Things progressed well. The community descended upon the premises to purchase the clothes hanging from the portable hanging devices. Children scooped up toys discarded toys of the more affluent and less appreciative and begged for parental indulgence of a quarter. And then it rained.
The quickening wind was but a brief prelude to the drenching. Suddenly, the dark clouds opened and wet descended. The purchasers and the sellers headed through the doors of the church seeking shelter from the torrent. Church members grabbed tarps and plastic table clothes to dart about the outdoor emporium covering the merchandise from the downpour. It was a blessed rain. For inside the youth had successfully made transition from breakfast to lunch.
The serving table was laded with hamburgers and hot dogs, chips, cold slaw, cookies, cake, brownies and an assorted collection of lunchtime goodies. The sheltered brethren draped damp torsos over chairs about the tables and the consumption of food and chatter of tales began. The youth counted the money and recounted the money unable to believe the benefit of the rain.
The rain had only come for lunch. When bellies were full and gossip had diminished the conglomerate of persons trickled back outside. Merchandise was uncovered and the market reopened. The rite of the thrown out being taken in resumed.
All good things, they say, must come to an end. The remaining stuff was loaded again on the trailers. The clothes hanging devices disassembled. The food sale remains were cleaned up. The church treasurer counted the bounty as the saints gathered about. Congratulations were exchanged with the announcement the profit would keep the transitional house going another year.
The parson watched the trailers, pulled by an assortment of pickups, pull away from the church carrying the unsold to a nearby mission. With only a few more good byes the church was deserted. He directed his weary body to the little study. A week's events had delayed the complete construction of tomorrow's sermon. Opening the closet he pulled out the change of clothes he kept there to replace the still damp ones he wore. He took time to get coffee from the kitchen and sat the mug on the coffee table of his study. The assembled notes were placed on the sofa beside him. The notebook was placed in his lap. The parson drew in a deep breath, rolled his head around his shoulder in an effort to remove the kinks of the aging. He rested his head against the sofa back as he attempted to assemble his thoughts. The coffee grew cold. The notebook shut itself down. The parson napped.
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A Sermon
Twenty-seventh Sunday After Pentecost
November 16, 2008
Matthew 25: 14-30
Eric Johnson tells
of that the French Army once was having trouble recruiting men to
join the paratrooper division of their army. The recruiters, however,
came up with what they thought was a terrific idea. On one of the
busiest streets in Paris they put up a large poster. The poster read:
“Young Men! Join the parachutist forces of France. It is more
dangerous to cross this street than to jump from an airplane with a
parachute.”
The poster seemed to be a great success until one day someone took a marker and wrote on the bottom of the poster: “I would join gladly, but the recruiting office in on the other side of the street.” (Eric W. Johnson, A Treasury of Humor, New York: Ivy Books, 1994)
The truth of the matter is that we often want to remain on the safe side of the street. And that’s one of the conclusions we draw from this seemingly impenetrable Parable of the Talents.
Let’s point out a few things about this story Jesus tells.
Jesus throughout his ministry had this marvelous habit of throwing his followers curve balls in his teachings. Last week in the gospel story, he says the disciples are like teenage girls. I don’t think we can fully appreciate the impact of that story upon the disciples until we remember that in the society Jesus lived women were second class, maybe even lower than that. And Jesus not only compares the disciples to these creatures he relates they are like immature females.
I’ve always been disappointed we do not have a description of the disciple’s reaction
And then, in the gospel lesson today, he once again stands them on their ears.
Once again someone is coming. Last week it was the bridegroom. This week it’s the return of the business man who went on a journey to check on his servants with whom he’s left these enormous sums of money.
So, what’s the story about? Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I don’t think it’s about those traditional things we hear the story is about. Because we encounter the story around the time that churches are making their budgets for the coming year, it’s often used as a stewardship parable. Bring your talents, your money, to the Lord. And please don’t be like that one talent fellow who got condemned by his Lord. At other times the story is used to recruit Sunday school teachers or committee members. Don’t bury your talents use them in the service of the Lord.
Well, what is the story about? On the one hand it’s about money. Don’t mistake this. The story is about money. But, as with so many of Jesus’ stories, he develops it to ridiculous extremes.
There is no doubt here that Jesus is talking about money, but he’s talking about the kind of money we all have these fantasies about. “If I could only win the lottery, especially when the jackpot exceeds hundreds of millions of dollars.”
The word Jesus uses in the story is talanta. A talanta was the largest denomination of money in Jesus’ world. James Howell said we should translate the word talanta as “a huge bucket full of solid gold.” Howell goes on to explain that a Mediterranean laborer “wouldn’t have any more clue about how to invest five talanta than the guy who bags my groceries would about $74 million.” To one he gave five talents. Let’s see 74 times 5. That’s $370 million where I went to school. To another he gave two; that’s $148 million. And one poor fellow got only $74 million. Do you suppose Jesus is stretching the limits of hyperbole here? First of all, no one in Jesus’ day could conceive of $370 million. And besides, if, as Howell, relates a talanta is a bucket full of gold, how would anyone carry it?
Jesus is talking about ridiculous sums of money here. They are sums of money that the disciples surely could never have comprehended. They are sums of money that you and I can only imagine. What is Jesus trying to tell us?
Have you ever had fantasies about the lottery? Ever thought to yourself, “Boy, if I could only get that kind of money I could do so much good in the world. Ever dreamed of riches beyond measure?
Sure you have. And I want you to know you are not alone. When I come into the riches that I know I’m deserving of I’ll be sure to pay off this church’s debt with the first check I write.
We all dream of riches beyond measure. Little do we realize how rich we already are. Johnny Dean told a great story about an adult Sunday School class that was talking about this parable of the talents. The teacher of the class questioned the members and then asked if anyone in the class could sum up the story in a few words. An older member of the class laughed and then said, “Sure. Them that has, gets. That’s what it means.” (Johnny Dean, “Use It Or Lose It”, esermons.com)
Them that has, gets.
You know what that is exactly what it means. And here’s a newsflash
for you. “We are the ones that have it.”
We must be ever
vigilant that we do not forget we are the ones that “have it.”
Listen to me! Listen carefully. We are the ones that have it. We have
abundance beyond measure.
“For it is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them ….”
Jesus the Christ suffered and died on the cross for our redemption. And he has entrusted his Kingdom to us. To us. We are the keepers of the Kingdom of God. We are the inheritors of the immeasurable bounty of our Lord. We are the trustees of the Kingdom of our Lord and Savior.
“to one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away.
Which do you suppose we are? Are we the one talent servant, the two talent servant, or the five talent servant? Now I’m not asking you this personally. I’m not inquiring into how much each of you individually has received. I’m asking you how many talents we, the church, have received? Is our church a one talent, a two talent, or a five talent church?
We are a church that is blessed beyond measure in the abundant treasure Christ has given to us. We are the inheritors of God’s richest blessing, the responders to God’s deepest call. He has gone on a journey and entrusted the riches to us. To us! Look around you. Don’t you see them. Don’t you just shiver in excitement at the wealth bestowed on us, entrusted to us?
Charlie Brown, the world’s more renowned philosopher, came down from his bedroom one morning to greet his mother in the kitchen. Charlie Brown said, “Mom, I think I’ve discovered my difficulty in getting out of bed.”
“What’s that?” asked his Mom.
“I’m allergic to mornings,” says Charlie.
And so it is with us. We are allergic to mornings. Here we sit with all this wealth, with all these blessings, and we’re sitting around waiting on the return of Jesus. And while we do, nothing’s happening to the riches that are ours now.
Here’s another interesting tidbit about this parable. It probably didn’t make sense to the disciples. In Jesus’ story the servant with the one talent is castigated because he buried his talent in the ground. But in Jesus’ day the rabbis taught that anyone who buried his master’s money was not liable for it, since this was the most prudent course of action. So the one talent fellow did what one would have expected. And yet Jesus condemns him. What lesson can we draw from this.
My interpretation is this: Times have changed, fellows. I’m imbuing you with great blessing, great riches, great possibilities. Do something with it while I’m gone.
I have to tell you, folks, I have a real difficulty with this end times theology that is so prevalent in popular theology today. Oh, Jesus is coming, no doubt. But the lesson of this parable is what we are to do when we are waiting or the coming of the Master.
What are we doing here in our church while the Kingdom on earth is entrusted to us?
Yesterday, was a wonderful day here. Not many of you showed up, and in truth we only earned a little of money. But those that were here laughed, shared, met new folks, raised a little money to get a homeless family off the streets, got wet when the rains came, and took what was left over to provision the shelves of a ministry to the less fortunate. We did something yesterday! We didn’t wait for the coming of Jesus. We acted as Jesus would have acted had Jesus been here. We were good stewards of the Kingdom of God, yesterday.
We’re doing something! We’re doing something. Praise God we are not sitting on our premises; we are doing something with the richness God has given us.
The condemnation of the one talent servant was not that he earned no interest. It was that he did nothing with the richness Christ had given.
Okay, that’s enough sermon for today. There’s a world out there waiting for us to do something. So, lets quit preaching and let’s resume doing.
Amen.
The
parson was working on an old car someone had given to the church. The
plan was to somehow get it running so it could be given to the family
at the transitional house. It was a noble project. It was also a
humbling project. What the parson knew about internal combustion
engines would not fill a thimble. He finally conceded defeat and
lowered the hood. As he stood wiping his hands and contemplating the
proper strategy to get the car dealer church member to donate the
repairs, he heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, Parson, where'd you get that neat car?”
The parson turned to inspect the car with its flaked paint, dented right front fender, and missing right side mirror. He'd not thought of the vehicle as “neat.” Instantaneously he decided not to ask for an explanation of the description. He turned to see his favorite budding pastor leaning with her bike against the fence that bordered the church yard.
“Hello, Ginger, I know a fellow who runs a wrecker service. He towed this car in from a parking lot. He's letting me try to get it fixed so one of the homeless women can use it.”
“That's a good idea, Parson. I didn't know you knew how to fix cars.”
The parson smiled. “I don't Ginger; I was just pretending.”
Ginger dismounted her bike without it ever moving from its leaning position against the fence. The parson thought that was neat.
“You know,” said Ginger, “you could take it to Mr. Faulkner's Dodge place. Shucks, with the economy ruined he's not selling any cars. He ought to have time to fix it.”
“Well, I have to get it there, Ginger.”
“No problem. Mr. Faulkner has one of those tow trucks. Old Harvey Siller drivers it.”
“You're right, Ginger. I need to do that. I'll call Bill Faulkner tomorrow. What brings you to an old country church on a beautiful afternoon.”
Ginger walked a few steps to sit on a garden bench beside the driveway. “Actually, Parson, I came by because I wanted to tell you not to worry.”
“Not to worry? Worry about what?”
“Look, Parson,” she said with a tone of self-knowledge, “I heard you talking to Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Bennett after church last Sunday. I was helping Mom clean the kitchen and when I took the trash out I passed by the room where you were talking. I heard you guys talking about the collection was short the last few Sundays. Well, I just want you to know you don't need to worry about it.”
“I don't?”
“No, you don't. Let me explain.” Ginger now stood and walked to the side of the flower bed where the parson had taken a seat on another garden bench. Standing in front of him, she continued. “This financial problem the country is having will be good for everybody.”
“It will?”
“Yes, sir, it will. Look, last Friday night I spent the night with my cousin, Judith. You know her; she comes to church when she spends the night at my house.”
The parson indicated he did know Judith.
“So, while I was over there I realized that everybody not having as much money is a good thing.”
“I”m glad to hear that. But how did you come to this conclusion.”
“Okay, now listen this is just between you and me. I'm telling you this as my pastor so you can't tell anyone else. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, most of the time when I go to Judith's house her mom and dad are too busy to pay much attention to us. Most of the time they leave us with Judith's sister and they go out to eat or to a movie or play or something. But last time they didn't do that. Know what they did?”
“What?”
“They taught us how to play this game call Monopoly. And we played that game together for hours. It was cool. I don't think they have played a game with Judith for a long time. And you know why they didn't do it?”
“Why?”
“'cause, they couldn't afford to go out to eat. Judith's mom got laid off at her job, so they don't have enough money to do that stuff anymore. But they do have time for Judith now. And that's the good thing about it.”
The parson marveled at the wisdom of one so young.
“And that's why you don't have to worry about the church budget so much.”
“Judith
and her parents are connected to the church budget?”
“No,
silly,” said Ginger as she rolled her eyes. “It's the same kind
of situation though. Look, if we don't have enough money in the
budget the youth can't go on that trip to Disney World. Right?”
“Right.”
“So, instead, they will have to learn to do things around here, just like Judith's parents. So we could have projects to help people that are in real trouble. We could help old people fix up their house; we could rake leaves at the shut-ins houses. There's all kinds of things we can do because we don't have enough money to do all those we don't need to do.”
The parson pondered this latest revelation from God's future messenger.
“I've got to go, Parson,” said Ginger. “Mom's going to be mad if I'm late. See you later. And quit worrying.”
The parson watched her pedal down the road. He rose, whistled for his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, and waked toward his car, all the while wondering if the grandkids knew how to play Chinese Checkers.
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Dearest Daughter –
I had a nice day today. My
daughter-in-love, that’s your sister-in-law, the wife of your
little brother, came to see me. Actually, she didn’t just come to
see me. Being the kind considerate woman, the only kind of woman who
could capture the heart of your younger sibling, she drove up to let me be
with my grandson. It was a nice day. He’s growing. Since your
brother lives so close to you, you may not have noticed the things I
noticed about your nephew. Who would have thought time has passed so
quickly. I mean he was only seven months yesterday and already he’s
pulling himself up, mimicking the actions of those around him and
doing all kinds of things that are absolutely wonderful.
Now please understand. The bragging I’m doing here on your nephew is no reflection of the marvelous development of your own children, my granddaughters. In fact, I’m sure your little one, only a month younger than your brother’s first born, is continuing to advance at the phenomenal rate which is so characteristic of the bearers of my genes.
But, I digress. The purpose of this letter is not to speak so much of your nephew, or your daughters. I have written to speak about you, my child. Gracious, this is very difficult. It’s kind of awkward, in fact.
My sweet child, you have grown into a magnificent woman. You are a delight to my heart. Your beauty is much more than physical. There is a sweet spirit within your soul that just makes the buttons on your daddy’s shirt pop off with his pride in you. You have become a shining example to so many with the dedication you have to making the world better through your work with the less fortunate. You have been a textbook on the way children should be raised. When I look at my granddaughters and see your reflection in them my sense of contentment is deep.
Having said these things, my daughter, let me remind you of a few particulars. You have always had a tendency to dance close to the edge. Your growing up was characterized by your desire to push the limits. In many ways this was a delightful thing. It set you apart from ordinary children and kept me always living in anticipation of what you might do next. You do remember that jock you punched out at the bus stop? You do remember the times you picked fights with your brothers just for entertainment? There are a lot of things I’m sure you remember.
Fact is, I thought that having reached the fourth decade of your delightful life, having birthed three beautiful children, and the simple fact of being a mother would have tempered that impudent nature you inherited from your mother. But I was wrong!
Please don’t ever get the idea you have reached an age when you are beyond my inflicting corporal punishment upon you. You may think, young lady, that because you are the mother of my granddaughters you are safely beyond my retribution, but you are so very wrong.
Listen to me! Pay attention, Little Ms. Smarty Pants, you are to never, never, never again volunteer to babysit your nephew, my grandson, overnight, on the night before he is to spend the day with me and the next morning, just before sending him my way, feed that child two, count them, two jars of prunes!
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