Coming of age in the 1970’s, in suburban Minneapolis, was a wonderful experience.
Doing so, in a parsonage, as the son of a preacher man added its own unique flavor.
As a PK (or Preacher’s Kid) we were pretty much expected to be in the back pew any and EVERY time that dad was in the pulpit.
Helping to fold church bulletins, sorting the monthly newsletters by zip code for mailing, and accompanying dad on some of his daily duties, kept life interesting for a young kid.
I remember thinking that being a minister might be kind of a sweet gig. Heck, ya preach a sermon and lead worship on Sunday morning and then the rest of your week is pretty much yours to do as you please.
Like most impressions I formed back then without doing much research I was sadly mistaken. A minister’s life, as I witnessed first hand, is really pretty busy.
There are weddings and funerals to officiate.
Hospital calls to make, nursing homes to visit, and many faith needs of the church members to be met.
There is local community outreach to engage in and even global needs to be addressed. There is the formal church hierarchy to deal with and EVERYONE in the congregation has an opinion on how you’re doing your job. Good and bad.
Some of the more memorable experiences I had were going with dad to a hospital burn unit to visit a patient who had requested a clergy visit. I’m sure my eyes were as big as saucers as they gowned us up in preparation for a short trip in to visit someone neither dad nor I knew, but there was a need so my father answered the call.
The pain and suffering on that hospital ward was profound.
Something I will never forget.
I also recall visiting an elderly church member at a nursing home so dad could give the man communion. I like to think I’m typically a pretty cool customer, but imagine my quandary when I was not sure what to do as dad looked at his small Bible to read a passage while the old man damn near swallowed the small glass communion cup.
I watched him roll it around in his mouth a time or two and then interrupted dad’s reading of the verse so that HE could fish it out of the man’s mouth.
I wasn’t going to do it!
Heck, that was the blood of Christ!
Who am I to mess with that?
I also recall on numerous occasions when dad would get a call from a particular local grocery store manager alerting him that there were day old baked goods that were going to be disposed of in a few days and that if dad wanted to come get them they would be free for the taking.
Dad would ask if I wanted to ride along and I’d get to help load the bakery items into our station wagon so we could take them to the food shelf at the Division of Indian Work in south Minneapolis.
The grocery guy was well aware, I’m sure, that it’d be far easier to just open the dumpster and pitch that unsold merchandise in and be done with it.
But this guy went the extra mile, made the extra effort.
He saw the value in donating those products to the less fortunate.
He didn’t need to do it, but to him it just made sense.
I was always amazed at his act of compassion and charity.
I don’t know how, where, or why my dad and that grocery guy came to meet and know each other. Dad has been gone 7 years now.
We said goodbye to that grocery guy today.
You see in my teen years I came to work with quite a few of the athletic teams at my high school as a student equipment manager. A lot of the guys from those teams are, to this day, some of the best friends I have.
While I was passing out tape, keeping stats, and slicing oranges for between periods energy boosters for the Bloomington Lincoln hockey team, one of the players on that team, nicknamed Lenny, was the grocery guy’s son.
Lenny is one of the funniest and nicest guys you’ll ever meet. We used to rollerblade on occasion back in the day, and some of our old slow-pitch softball exploits are the stuff of legends. Although he and I don’t see each other as often as I’d like it was nice to see him today, after too many years, but, like the cliche has it, the years kind of melted away as we talked.
As the post-funeral luncheon crowd dwindled and the volunteers cleared the tables I headed to the exit with other friends. Before leaving I had the opportunity to finally meet Lenny’s mom, the grocery guy’s widow.
I introduced myself as a friend of her son’s but pointed out to her that her husband and I went way back, even farther than Lenny and I.
I was happy to tell her the story of her husband’s generosity, caring, and human kindness.
I believe her voice caught a bit as she said, “That sounds so like him.”
Yes, that was EXACTLY him.
And he’s just one example why I’m convinced that there are angels that walk amongst us.
