Being the son of a preacher man tops my list of things to be proud of.
In my sixty years on Earth, my experience with organized and unorganized worship differs from that in televised megachurches, big-money donors, and twenty-thousand-seat auditoriums. It’s all foreign to me, and I keep it that way by choice.
I spent my life in the back pews of country churches that couldn’t find a pastor—usually because they didn’t have enough membership to keep the lights and the heat on. That’s where my father found his congregations; it was always clear that he was called to the ministry, but it wasn’t for money, cars, big houses, or accolades—a good suit for my father came from Pennys, and the pay he received went by the same moniker.
The janitorial staff at these white-clapboarded buildings often included my mother and her kids. She was also the cook for church suppers, side-by-side with ladies with similar beliefs, and a counselor to many because the pastor’s wife was often sought for consolation and wisdom when serious family matters reared their head within the congregation. Coffee was always on at our house, and there were enough chairs and mugs for everyone who showed up.
For a long time, I felt that our frequent moves, almost twenty before I was eighteen, were detrimental, but the more I reviewed my life experiences, the more I realized that I was a benefactor of the logistical mayhem.
I make friends quickly, I can talk to anyone about their chosen topic, and I know when to leave. I learned all these things from my father.
For a time, we were in Washington County, Maine. My Dad was an associate pastor in Machias for a short time and then found churches in Buck’s Harbor and Larrabee, Maine, without a minister. He took them both on. Buck’s Harbor on Sunday mornings and at the tiny Larrabee church on Sunday nights.
You can try to keep one church open, but keeping two houses of worship running with endless internal parishioner-raised concerns is a feat of strength. The fact that my father also held another full-time job to feed his family makes it even more impressive, especially to me.
Most folks here know my Dad passed away this past February, but he left us with his most significant asset, my Mama.
On our last evening in the woods, Mom and I took the all-terrain vehicle into town from the camp. She had some trepidation, and I did offer her a boat cushion for more luxurious accommodation. Still, she eschewed the comfort, trading it for the bumps, dust, and views of the river—I left the windshield down so she had a clear view when we looked for wildlife, birds, and seals.
We had fish chowder and ran into an old friend, Chris, and his wife, Lauren. I’ve known them both for years and went to high school with Lauren for a while. Chris and I were friends when we were kids, and I moved away—again— just before we hit our teens. I still run into him occasionally, always getting a good laugh from Chris’s stories of life Downeast.
Chris knew my Dad, and while my mother slipped away to the restroom to get ready for the trip back to the camp as the sun dropped, he approached me to ask if that was my Mom.
“I don’t think I’ve seen your Mom in fifty years,” he said. “I saw your father’s obituary in the paper last winter; I always liked him, Tim. He was a good man. Before you leave, I’d like to tell your mother what your father said to me when I was just a kid. It’s stuck with me forever.”
Chris ran into another one of his many friends on the restaurant’s concrete steps, so I loaded my mother into the rig, seatbelted her in, and we waited.
“Who is that again?”
“It’s Chris Sprague. You remember his parents (J and C). It’s just been a long time. He wants to tell you something that Daddy told him years ago.” I shared Chris’s parents’ names again, and the picture became evident in her head.
“Oh, okay. I think I do remember.”
Chris came down to the door, reintroduced himself to my mother, added his kind condolences to his gentle handshake, and said that when Dad was here in Machias, he said something that stuck with him forever. Chris explained that during a break in the youth group gathering, my father had told him a simple strategy for true joy in his life.
Chris listened and said he recalls it to this day.
Dad explained to him, as pastors do, that one easy way to live life with true joy is to put Jesus first, others second, and yourself third.
“J-O-Y,” Chris said, reiterating it as if he was hearing it for the first time. “Pastor Cotton told me that, and I’ve tried to do that my whole life. It meant a lot to me, and I’ve shared it with others, too.”
My mother smiled; Chris and I got a bit of moisture in our eyes, maybe for different reasons, but possibly the same; I don’t read minds.
It meant a lot to my Mama; I know that for sure.
I wanted to grab a photo of my mother with Chris, but, being the buffoon that I am, I realized the only sticker on my ATV was adhered to the windshield right in front of my mother, near where Chris was leaning. The decal is large and has always been a good conversation starter. Not as good as Chris is, but still.
The sticker says, “I love Pooping in the Woods.”
Chris and I would have found it funny, and Mother would, too, but it was better to leave the poop out of the special moment.
On the way back to camp, my mother asked me to repeat what Chris said, as she sometimes has difficulty hearing everything and forgets the little details.
I repeated it, mentioning that, back in the day, we sang a Sunday School chorus and used JOY as a similar acronym.
Mama shook her head. “That is something Daddy would say, I remember now. Chris is nice, isn’t he.”
“He is,” I said as we motored on, looking for deer, seals, and wildlife. Oh, and joy, naturally.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
TC
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