Dismissals

I’d made something of a mess of it and felt bad about it. This was not the first time I’d gone down the wrong road, said the wrong thing, or forgotten to do something. Stuff happens and mistakes are made. Mine was a doozy. I “fessed up.” All she said were three, strange words: “Nunc pro tunc.” She wouldn’t tell me what they meant … told me to look it up … it’s Latin … a legal term … “Now for then” … what we do now can make right what we did then. I say it often … quietly … under my breath … “Nunc pro tunc.”

My father collected stamps … every stamped envelope was a treasure, though his passion was for unused stamps, particularly “plate blocks” … four stamps with a serial number from the corner of a sheet of stamps. Now I have a lifetime supply of stamps in every denomination … 2 cent, 3 cent, ten, fifteen cents … I stick a dozen or so of these stamps on an envelope until there’s enough postage to get my letter where it’s going … these beautiful, old commemorative stamps … with their history … the memories … and my fond recollections of my father for which I am more grateful each year.

I am a midday regular at the gym, along with a few others … none of us getting any younger. We nod to each other … maybe a brief conversation about the weather or local sports. One of the regulars was having more off days than good days. Recently, he seemed haggard and not himself. I asked him about his well-being. There was a long pause… he looked directly at me and told me of the onset of his wife’s Alzheimer’s. He was her caregiver … the gym was his daily respite. Our conversation was short but I am glad I asked.  

I knew the family, five kids, all grown and living in the same town. Their mother died and left instructions … she did not want to take up space in some lonely graveyard. Her remains were cremated and her children made a plan. The ashes would be one month with one, then one month with another, and so on. Time passed. They lost track. Who had the ashes this month? No one recollected ever having had the ashes. There were tears. Finally, they called the funeral home. They still had the ashes and would someone please come and pick them up? 

Becky was at the food pantry whenever it was open. She started the pantry and she kept it going. I asked her how she came to be so involved. She said, “I was called by God.” I had to ask, “So, God called you to start this food pantry?” “No, no, no!” said Becky, “God never did say my name. I saw there was a need for a food pantry. Then I heard God calling, ‘Anyone? Anyone?’ and I answered.”

Years ago, my sister Lorinda and I sailed to the Caribbean Island of Bequia [BEK-way]. Lorinda’s cancer had returned. We were making a last, grand tour of the Caribbean where we had spent many of our early years. We walked on a secluded beach. There, pulled up on the sand, fishing boats made of stout wood … strongly built, seaworthy, brightly painted and hand-lettered. We stood before one boat with a blue hull and vivid yellow lettering on the side: “I dont fraid that” … just that way … four words that came to be our mantra for the time ahead. 

It is odd, the things we do as we delve deeper into the mysteries of our call to minister in the world. Our call as Christians is to care for one another, particularly those who are the least among us. Books have been written, prayers have been said, God’s people have been sent forth … I among them … to perform these sacred tasks … this holy work. It is not always as we expect. Not long ago, an old man with a white cane told me he was in need of the men’s room and asked if I would I help him.

Shopping this week for greeting cards at the discount store … birthday, anniversary, graduation, retirement … I waited nearby while Mom browsed. At the checkout, Mom poured out a prince’s ransom in pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters … and one fifty-cent piece. Our young cashier was perplexed, having evidently never seen such a coin. She rang management, received their blessing, then set about counting the coins. She told us that she would tell her family about the half dollar. Counting complete, I put down two quarters, picked up the half dollar and gave it to the cashier … best fifty cents I ever spent. 

I am an ordained deacon in the Episcopal Church. As years go by, and to my great joy, I find that ministry is now the center of my waking hours. The Book of Common Prayer sets out the charge to the deacon, “… to serve all people, particularly the poor, the weak, the sick, and the lonely.”* Every day, I do my best. I was asked yesterday if I could come once a week to help with a church ministry that serves hot meals to hungry people. I hesitated for about a microsecond … then asked what time they wanted me there.  * [The Book of Common Prayer, p.543]

I felt it coming … three locomotives and a mile of boxcars. Gates lowered, lights flashed, warning bells rang. I was first in line. I leaned on the fender of my car and the engineer returned my wave. As the train rolled by, I was drawn to the strange art spray-painted onto every boxcar … alluring images … words in surreal, contorted typestyles with soft, spray paint edges. As the boxcars trundled past, it occurred to me that graffiti artists should paint their own trains and not someone else’s. Still, I found something that I liked in this odd, otherworldly art-form.

In an old building with a few other offices, there is one office I call mine. I’m retired from work but I keep this room to write, drink coffee, and consider the human predicament. I am grateful for the quiet of this space. I do have one regular visitor, a big yellow dog from down the hall. She sits and stares at me, begging for a doggy treat, and she won’t leave until I give it to her. Happily, I have a supply from the drugstore across the street. She eats quickly, turns, and is gone, never overstaying her welcome. 

Trying times are here and the world is on edge. In some places, the world is on fire. Tempers flare. The possibilities for peace remain distant, the common exchange of courteous words but a memory. Where is the oil to spread upon these waters? I am lost and I cast about for what I am to say or do. I am no peace-bringer … yet God always provides … sending me the words of Saint Francis … words that I have long known but only now have I come to understand: “Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.” Amen.