slapping some worn clichés in the space between us. Only the good die young; our loved ones are now in a better place; the sun dawns just before the darkest hour; God never gives us more than we can handle. He heard those words at the funeral, as part of the sermon. And he wanted to know what I preached about yesterday.
I told him a story of McPherson’s about a particular children’s sermon in which the pastor asked a half-circle of kids gathered in the front of the church, wiggling and squiggling before him in their Sunday best, what was grey and had a long tail and ate nuts and climbed trees. One little boy, suddenly stilled, his brow furrowed with concentration, raised his hand.
“Preacher, I know the answer supposed to be ‘Jesus’ but he sure sounds like a squirrel to me!”
After we had both laughed a little, I told him I was sorry for his loss, sorry for his sister and his niece. He nodded and resumed working. Brush to bucket and back to wall. I’ll be praying for y’all, I added, judging by his accent that he was from the South. He smiled.
As I remember this exchange, I am thinking of all those prayers I have offered to God, Sunday after Sunday, every day of the week; all those words lifted up one at a time, over and over again. There are despairing moments in which they seem to cover nothing at all, much less someone’s pain.
Yet when the painter stepped back to appraise his work, I sensed a sacred space had opened between us. That had sure felt like prayer to me.
The light plastic of the church’s phone felt strangely heavy, as the news of Bud Thompson fell upon my ear. Dorothy had just learned of an explosion at Pleasant Shade involving her husband. She was desperately trying to find a babysitter. Could I go and be with Bud? Of course, I assured her, and promised to pray. As often happens, my petitions were interspersed with my memories. So much of prayer is a calling to mind.
On his feet all afternoon at his register, his bright smile ground into a tight-lipped grimace by the flood of inconsiderate shoppers, Bud crosses town in his equally exhausted old Honda in order to stand vigil at the night desk of the Pleasant Shade Senior Living Community. Everyone calls the place a “nursing” home, including the residents, which constantly serves to remind Bud of how his wife had left her job as an RN when their only child was born. Whenever I offer my sympathy regarding his grueling schedule, Bud holds up his hand, as if deflecting such sentiment.
“Pastor, it’s all worth it. Every single minute of it.”
The look on his face makes it clear. He means what he says. I admire this about Bud and have often made it a point to tell him while passing through his checkout line on my way home—a reality that has just as often tweaked my conscience.
Since he has to sleep at some point, Bud missed his two-year-old, haloed in soft morning light, lift his glass of milk and quite carefully pronounce, “I am a drinkin’ sunshine.” Dorothy tried to coax little Timothy into a second performance after his daddy had emerged from the dark lair of the bedroom. But some moments are tragically fleeting like the early rays themselves. And someone has to cover the rising cost of milk—even if the sunshine is free.
On this particular Monday morning, the day had announced its arrival with majestic red fanfare, which I had appreciated on my morning walk, having benefitted from a good night’s sleep. But Bud had stared glassy-eyed at the same sunrise. At the end of an all-night shift on duty, on top of the previous day’s work at the store, he had been so utterly consumed by his weariness that it took more than a few moments to register the flashing red button on the control panel beneath the window. When awareness finally dawned, Bud had not been overly concerned as he was most often paged for quite pedestrian reasons, such as walking to a resident’s room to fetch a glass of water.
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