Compensation
Stories
New Mercies I See
"That's my medicine," Louie said.
"I don't think so, Louie," I said, looking askance at the weathered little man at my door, dressed in dirty, mismatched clothes.
His statement was to get me to overlook the boozy aroma emanating from his entire personage and especially from his mouth, which had led me to observe, "You've been drinking."
Louie was one of my "regulars," a person who could be counted on to show up at my door at least once a month seeking material help to tide him over until his next welfare check arrived.
Our congregation, like almost every church in America, took seriously the biblical injunction to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. We had established a "Local Missions" fund in which resided about $200, and it was the duty of the pastor to administrate it, giving out vouchers that could be spent at area grocery stores and gas stations. Thus it was not uncommon to find people at my door requesting help. For the most part, these were people I'd come to know from their previous visits, though none were church members.
Louie was such a person. His family, such as it was, had been in poverty for at least three generations, and the practice of being permanently unemployed (leading to yet more need) showed no signs of abating with Louie. While I usually gave him a food voucher when he came by, I wouldn't do it when he was clearly intoxicated.
"No, it's really my medicine," Louie said again.
"Sorry. Come back when you're sober." I spoke kindly, because I felt genuine sympathy for Louie, even if his problems were of his own making.
Louie wobbled away.
Handling the Local Missions fund was a part of my work that I liked the least. In other circumstances, helping others can be uplifting, but with the "regulars," I often felt that I was perpetuating a cycle of dependency. In addition, some of those who came were rough-looking characters, who when steeped in alcohol, behaved unpredictably. I'd never been harmed, but one man had punched out the glass in my door when he didn't receive as large a food voucher as he wanted.
More than my own safety, however, I worried about Susie's. I was often out of the house, and it would fall to her to tell people to come back when I would be home, which of course, also told them she was there alone. So far, no one had been belligerent with her, but it was a concern.
In addition to those who came to our door seeking help, there were requests by telephone. Those were usually from people I didn't know. Generally these were folks who had gotten help so often from the church nearest them that they were now being turned away, and so they were prospecting to find other sources of help. Some had legitimate needs but others were "working the system," and it was always difficult for us pastors to tell one from the other.
One Friday evening when I was particularly tired and looking forward to a restful evening at home, I received such a call from a woman in another township 15 miles away. There were at least four other churches nearer to her, so I assumed that she had exhausted all of those sources of help and was now reaching out farther. But she had such a tale to tell -- hungry children in her house, she said, and not able to reach anyone at any of the churches nearer to her. My internal "bogus story" meter was going off, but of course, I couldn't be sure. And since it was Friday night, the county welfare offices were closed so I couldn't call there to check her need or to see if she really had any children.
My immediate inclination was to say no, but then, suppose her story was true. If there really were hungry children in the house, they shouldn't suffer because of their parents' misfortune, lack of planning, bad habits, or unwillingness to work. So I finally agreed to give her a voucher to use at her local supermarket. I told her I'd have it ready for her to pick up.
But then she said she had no transportation. Could I deliver it? A 30-mile round trip mind you. I was about to say no, but I again considered that there really might be hungry children there.
I made the delivery.
When I drove into the woman's driveway, there were four vehicles sitting there, and no children in the house. They were all out with their father at that moment, the woman said, which of course begged the question of what he was using for transportation. So she was working the system -- though from the look of her place, her poverty was real enough.
I left the voucher with her, but I drove away feeling as if I'd been taken for a sucker.
Jesus observed that "the poor you will always have with you," and for those of us trying to assist them, the whole matter remained unsolvable. One thing you certainly couldn't count on was getting any kind of warm feeling or sense of satisfaction when helping the poor. Some didn't even seem appreciative, and maybe they shouldn't be. It can't be easy standing on the outside and looking at the bounty others have.
But then, you never knew. Take Louie. I never heard what changed in his life -- or if indeed it had changed -- but the next three times he arrived at my door, he was at least sober. And then, I didn't see him for several months.
When he finally came again, I was painting the kitchen, and was thoroughly paint-splattered. Seeing Louie through the door glass, I grabbed my voucher pad. Opening the door, I immediately observed that while dressed as usual in ill-fitting and mismatched clothes, Louie's outfit was clean, and he had on a necktie. His hair was combed and his face was freshly shaved. With him was a woman of similar age, tidily dressed in hand-me-down clothes but so skinny she appeared undernourished. She was smiling.
"This here's Beverly," Louie said. "We'd like you to marry us, Reverend."
Surprised, I said, "All right. When would you like to have the ceremony?"
"Right now. We got the license and everything." He held up a packet of papers.
I looked down at my messy old clothes and the freckles of paint on my arms. "I don't look good enough for a wedding at this moment. How about at 6:00 this evening?"
"We don't care what you look like. We're all set."
Beverly nodded her agreement.
"Well," I said, "the day you get married is a special one. And you'll want to remember that everything was nice. How about giving me an hour to get cleaned up? We'll have the wedding in the church. I've got a camera, and I'll have my wife come and take your picture."
Louie looked thoughtful. "Yes, that would be nice. What do you think, Bev?"
"That sounds really good," Beverly answered.
So that's what we did. Cleaned up and wearing my dark suit, I performed the ceremony. Susie played the wedding march on the piano, and afterward took pictures of the smiling pair. I promised to have them developed and mailed to Louie.
"Thanks, Reverend," Louie said. "That's real nice." Then, taking his bride's hand, he led her out of the church.
So passed the awkward moment when newlywed husbands usually handed me an envelope. While I never charged for weddings, most couples gave me an honorarium of between $25 and $50. With the small church salary, such gifts were a welcome addition to our income. But when I agreed to officiate for Louie and Beverly, I knew I wouldn't be getting an honorarium.
So I wasn't even thinking about that when Louie came running back into the church. "I almost forgot this, Reverend." Louie thrust a small envelope toward me. Knowing Louie's precarious financial situation, I almost refused it, but something about his eagerness changed my mind.
"Thank you, Louie."
After he left, I opened the envelope. Inside were three one-dollar bills.
I couldn't remember ever being as well compensated.
"I don't think so, Louie," I said, looking askance at the weathered little man at my door, dressed in dirty, mismatched clothes.
His statement was to get me to overlook the boozy aroma emanating from his entire personage and especially from his mouth, which had led me to observe, "You've been drinking."
Louie was one of my "regulars," a person who could be counted on to show up at my door at least once a month seeking material help to tide him over until his next welfare check arrived.
Our congregation, like almost every church in America, took seriously the biblical injunction to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. We had established a "Local Missions" fund in which resided about $200, and it was the duty of the pastor to administrate it, giving out vouchers that could be spent at area grocery stores and gas stations. Thus it was not uncommon to find people at my door requesting help. For the most part, these were people I'd come to know from their previous visits, though none were church members.
Louie was such a person. His family, such as it was, had been in poverty for at least three generations, and the practice of being permanently unemployed (leading to yet more need) showed no signs of abating with Louie. While I usually gave him a food voucher when he came by, I wouldn't do it when he was clearly intoxicated.
"No, it's really my medicine," Louie said again.
"Sorry. Come back when you're sober." I spoke kindly, because I felt genuine sympathy for Louie, even if his problems were of his own making.
Louie wobbled away.
Handling the Local Missions fund was a part of my work that I liked the least. In other circumstances, helping others can be uplifting, but with the "regulars," I often felt that I was perpetuating a cycle of dependency. In addition, some of those who came were rough-looking characters, who when steeped in alcohol, behaved unpredictably. I'd never been harmed, but one man had punched out the glass in my door when he didn't receive as large a food voucher as he wanted.
More than my own safety, however, I worried about Susie's. I was often out of the house, and it would fall to her to tell people to come back when I would be home, which of course, also told them she was there alone. So far, no one had been belligerent with her, but it was a concern.
In addition to those who came to our door seeking help, there were requests by telephone. Those were usually from people I didn't know. Generally these were folks who had gotten help so often from the church nearest them that they were now being turned away, and so they were prospecting to find other sources of help. Some had legitimate needs but others were "working the system," and it was always difficult for us pastors to tell one from the other.
One Friday evening when I was particularly tired and looking forward to a restful evening at home, I received such a call from a woman in another township 15 miles away. There were at least four other churches nearer to her, so I assumed that she had exhausted all of those sources of help and was now reaching out farther. But she had such a tale to tell -- hungry children in her house, she said, and not able to reach anyone at any of the churches nearer to her. My internal "bogus story" meter was going off, but of course, I couldn't be sure. And since it was Friday night, the county welfare offices were closed so I couldn't call there to check her need or to see if she really had any children.
My immediate inclination was to say no, but then, suppose her story was true. If there really were hungry children in the house, they shouldn't suffer because of their parents' misfortune, lack of planning, bad habits, or unwillingness to work. So I finally agreed to give her a voucher to use at her local supermarket. I told her I'd have it ready for her to pick up.
But then she said she had no transportation. Could I deliver it? A 30-mile round trip mind you. I was about to say no, but I again considered that there really might be hungry children there.
I made the delivery.
When I drove into the woman's driveway, there were four vehicles sitting there, and no children in the house. They were all out with their father at that moment, the woman said, which of course begged the question of what he was using for transportation. So she was working the system -- though from the look of her place, her poverty was real enough.
I left the voucher with her, but I drove away feeling as if I'd been taken for a sucker.
Jesus observed that "the poor you will always have with you," and for those of us trying to assist them, the whole matter remained unsolvable. One thing you certainly couldn't count on was getting any kind of warm feeling or sense of satisfaction when helping the poor. Some didn't even seem appreciative, and maybe they shouldn't be. It can't be easy standing on the outside and looking at the bounty others have.
But then, you never knew. Take Louie. I never heard what changed in his life -- or if indeed it had changed -- but the next three times he arrived at my door, he was at least sober. And then, I didn't see him for several months.
When he finally came again, I was painting the kitchen, and was thoroughly paint-splattered. Seeing Louie through the door glass, I grabbed my voucher pad. Opening the door, I immediately observed that while dressed as usual in ill-fitting and mismatched clothes, Louie's outfit was clean, and he had on a necktie. His hair was combed and his face was freshly shaved. With him was a woman of similar age, tidily dressed in hand-me-down clothes but so skinny she appeared undernourished. She was smiling.
"This here's Beverly," Louie said. "We'd like you to marry us, Reverend."
Surprised, I said, "All right. When would you like to have the ceremony?"
"Right now. We got the license and everything." He held up a packet of papers.
I looked down at my messy old clothes and the freckles of paint on my arms. "I don't look good enough for a wedding at this moment. How about at 6:00 this evening?"
"We don't care what you look like. We're all set."
Beverly nodded her agreement.
"Well," I said, "the day you get married is a special one. And you'll want to remember that everything was nice. How about giving me an hour to get cleaned up? We'll have the wedding in the church. I've got a camera, and I'll have my wife come and take your picture."
Louie looked thoughtful. "Yes, that would be nice. What do you think, Bev?"
"That sounds really good," Beverly answered.
So that's what we did. Cleaned up and wearing my dark suit, I performed the ceremony. Susie played the wedding march on the piano, and afterward took pictures of the smiling pair. I promised to have them developed and mailed to Louie.
"Thanks, Reverend," Louie said. "That's real nice." Then, taking his bride's hand, he led her out of the church.
So passed the awkward moment when newlywed husbands usually handed me an envelope. While I never charged for weddings, most couples gave me an honorarium of between $25 and $50. With the small church salary, such gifts were a welcome addition to our income. But when I agreed to officiate for Louie and Beverly, I knew I wouldn't be getting an honorarium.
So I wasn't even thinking about that when Louie came running back into the church. "I almost forgot this, Reverend." Louie thrust a small envelope toward me. Knowing Louie's precarious financial situation, I almost refused it, but something about his eagerness changed my mind.
"Thank you, Louie."
After he left, I opened the envelope. Inside were three one-dollar bills.
I couldn't remember ever being as well compensated.
