Being Helped In Spite Of Himself
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Being Helped in Spite of Himself" by Sandra Herrmann
"Harvesting What He Sowed" by Sandra Herrmann
"Shaking Dust" by C. David McKirachan
"Goomba" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
Naaman was used to being an important man -- when he said, "Jump!" he expected the response to be "How high?" But when Naaman sought healing from Elisha, he didn't understand the prophet's strange prescription at first and reacted angrily. It was only after he learned an important lesson in trust and humility (and did the prophet's bidding) that he was healed. The lessons that we learn -- sometimes serendipitously, sometimes painfully -- is the theme tying together all of the tales in this edition of StoryShare. In our featured story, Sandra Herrmann tells of a modern-day Naaman who learns a similar lesson from his secretary after impatiently unleashing a fit of rage at her. Sandra also illustrates this week's epistle passage with a story about a dashing young attorney whose inability to rein in his drinking leads to a harsh, life-changing lesson. Then David McKirachan shares a pair of pieces about the lessons he's learned -- from the difficult ministry of his first parish, and from a special "goomba" who always had his back... just like God.
* * * * * * * * *
Being Helped In Spite of Himself
Sandra Herrmann
Elisha sent a messenger to Naaman, saying, "Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall be restored and you shall be clean." But Naaman became angry and went away, saying, "I thought that for me he would surely come out, and stand and call on the name of the Lord his God, and would wave his hand over the spot, and cure the leprosy! Are not Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? Could I not wash in them, and be clean?" He turned and went away in a rage.
2 Kings 5:10-12
"Jenny, call the travel agency, please. I need to leave on the first available flight to Norway. I'll need a hotel the first night, but after that I'll be living on an oil rig. I won't need a car; the oil company's picking me up and delivering me."
"I'll get right on it, Mr. Daniels." Jenny called the agency and asked for her favorite agent. Sarah had taught Jenny the ins and outs of booking flights, and Jenny had taught Sarah what services her boss wanted. It was a perfect working relationship, one that Sarah had worked to establish. Unfortunately, Sarah was helping another customer at the moment.
"I can have her call you as soon as she's done," the receptionist told Jenny. No need even to leave a number; Jenny and Sarah were on each other's rolodexes.
Jenny went back to working on the papers on her desk.
A few minutes later, Mr. Daniels strode out of his office, and stopped short. "What are you doing, Jenny? I need that reservation, and I need it right now!" He was red in the face and scowling. Even the papers in his hand were shaking.
"Mr. Daniels!" Jenny was shocked. Her boss had never treated her this way. Something must be wrong. But when she asked, he shook the papers in her direction and ordered her to "Make that call! Right now!"
"I already have, Mr. Daniels. Sarah, our usual agent, was helping another customer. She'll get back to me in just another minute or so."
"Why on earth would you need to have Sarah? Any agent can book a flight. Now get on it!"
Jenny looked down for a second, and then nodded. "I'm calling even as we speak."
Apparently satisfied, Mr. Daniels stomped back into his office. Jenny waited as long as she thought she could, listening for Mr. Daniels as she did so. An extra minute would possibly assure that she could get Sarah on the job.
Just as she had dialed, Mr. Daniels was back at her desk. "Well?" he demanded.
Jenny held up her index finger to show him she was waiting for the phone to be answered. When the connection was made, she asked the receptionist, "Is Sarah available yet? Oh, good. Yes, I can hold." She winked and nodded at Mr. Daniels, who was still standing at her desk.
"Hold? Jenny, this is possibly the most important trip I'm taking this year. And you're on HOLD? Why, may I ask? And it had better not be that you're holding for Sarah. Get hold of an agent, and do it now!"
"Mr. Daniels," Jenny said in her best professional, calming voice, "I don't know why you're so angry. You only told me five minutes ago that you need this flight. It always takes about 10 minutes to do a booking. And Sarah is the best person in that office. I trust her to do all of the travel plans that we need, and she's never let us down."
Mr. Daniels stopped pacing and shaking, but he was still a bit red around the edges.
"You remember your last trip to Sweden? She was the one who found the artist your wife is so fond of, and got you that wonderful print to take home."
Mr. Daniels was beginning to look sheepish. "Was she the one who did that? I thought you did that."
"Well, we both get credit for that one. I remembered the artist's name, and she knew which gallery carried his work. Trust me, Mr. Daniels. We want Sarah to book your trip and hotel. She always gets it right, even the extras."
"Well, all right," he said grudgingly, "Get her on the job as soon as possible." He was no longer stomping as he returned to his office.
Jenny was never so glad to hear anyone's voice as she was to hear Sarah's. "How can I help you today, Jenny?"
"Oh, Sarah, Mr. Daniels needs to get on the first available flight to the North Sea. Something's brewing on an oil rig up there, and he's really anxious. I've never seen him so uptight."
So Sarah made all the arrangements, including a cab to pick up his suitcase before picking him up and delivering him to the plane. "Oh, and Jenny, should I have a box of his favorite chocolates on the table in his room when he gets there?"
Jenny smiled. As she had told Mr. Daniels, Sarah always came through. Even with the "extras."
Harvesting What He Sowed
Sandra Herrmann
Do not be deceived; God is not mocked, for you reap whatever you sow. If you sow to your own flesh, you will reap corruption from the flesh...
Galatians 6:7-8a
Dean leaned his hard-muscled 6'3" body against the doorway to the bar. He liked to scan a room before he entered. He also liked to give the people he was approaching a minute to admire his good looks. He had been told a few times that he looked remarkably like a certain blond movie star with his crooked smile. His height and smile usually helped in court, too.
Dean was a criminal attorney. It was a stressful job, more stressful than he'd expected. And the clients called at all hours. After all, as he often said, that's why attorneys are called "counselor." He'd found that working out at the gym helped, as did jogging, and of course a few drinks always relaxed him.
But right now he wanted female companionship. And at the bar was a redhead who was smiling at him, maybe a little shyly, maybe a bit coyly. He thought it would be a good idea to find out which it was. He was always drawn to the exotic ladies.
She was sucking an ice cube when he walked up behind her. "Could I buy you a drink to go with that?" he asked. She turned and smiled, and he could see that she definitely liked the idea. She turned out to be a good dancer, too. And more important, she was as drawn to him as he was to her.
Their whole romance seemed to be on fast forward. They did the clubs twice a week, danced till the band quit, and went back to his place because he hated to go home alone. Weekends they got out of town. They both loved to ski, and they had the money to do occasional trips to Vermont or Colorado. And that was why they got married in a chapel in Vegas -- it was just a short trip from Tahoe. Despite his past failed relationships, Dean was sure that Raina was The One. "And anyway, third time's the charm," he reassured them both.
The only catch came months after they were married, when Raina stopped drinking. He hadn't counted on that. But Raina said she didn't enjoy the bar scene anymore. She wanted her body in good shape to have a child. And he did want children. But he still need a few drinks after work, just to unwind.
"Can't you just come home and let me feed you a good meal?" Raina asked. "I could give you a nice massage, and that would relax you."
"I deserve a drink or two after a hard day. You have no idea the pressure of preparing a criminal case." Raina showed her impatience by leaving the room when he poured a second drink. Which, of course, made him angry, so he had to have a third, and then a fourth.
It took barely over a year into their marriage for Dean to leave the house when Raina said, "Please don't have another drink. Dinner's ready, and it'll get overcooked if you have another drink first." He got in the car and drove to the nearest bar. He told himself it was better for him to get out of the house. Otherwise, he'd get mad enough to slap Raina's beautiful face. And he did not want to do that.
Unfortunately, it took only three months of slamming out of the house and roaring off in his car for the local cops to start watching for him. His first DUI shook him enough that he started limiting himself to one drink a night. But when the fear wore off, he went back to drinking until Raina insisted he stop, and then he would drive to the bar again.
And then one night Raina's second-worst fear happened. Dean drove into the side of a car coming home from the bar.
"It wasn't really my fault, Raina," Dean complained. "This old codger was driving so slow, I just pulled out to pass him, and there was frost on the street. I just slid into his car."
That didn't work with Raina, nor with the court. Dean is spending the next three years in jail, his court cases have been rescheduled as his clients got new lawyers to take up their cases, and his and Raina's savings have been seized to repay those clients.
It's really too bad, because everyone expected Dean to be a great lawyer. After all, as he often said, he was smart, clever, and good-looking. That should have been enough.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady.
Shaking Dust
C. David McKirachan
Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
Ministers are transient figures. We move from place to place, carrying our gifts and skills and quirks and scars with us. I remember when I got my first church. It was a tiny inner-city parish. There was no secretary, no janitor, and a singularity of need, sucking each and every bit of my power into the limbo of survival and barely-maintained sanity. My idealism was no match for parishioners starving to death and funerals that have to take violent murder into account. I cried a lot.
I remember one session meeting that included the trustees in a discussion about the budget. The debate got hot over what to do with the money from the Coke machine. I ended up in the middle of the room trying to pry apart the stewardship chair and the president of the trustees. Peacemaking took on a whole new meaning.
I lasted five years. It felt like 50. I expected to dance away from the job that had taxed every resource, physical, emotional, and spiritual, to which I had access. I expected to spread wings that I had kept in shape only by volunteer work for the church camp, vacationing at my parents' house, continuing education, and learning how to pray constantly.
The last load I schlepped up to the manse at the new call was houseplants. I started to cry at the end of the driveway in the city and didn't stop until the driveway in the country. What the heck was wrong with me?
I realized that my failures of ministry were precious lessons. I realized that the purgatory of my first church had been the fire that forged what I'd learned from others into a personal faith that directed and led me into the pulpit and the hospital room and the committee meeting and the classroom and all the other places that ministry drags us.
I wanted to shake dust, to put it all behind me. But I realized that my very identity was tangled with the five years of ministry and struggle under that slightly dilapidated steeple on that congested and grimy corner in that bad neighborhood. I realized that the kingdom of God is not about success and failure or comfort and challenge. It's about life and suffering and tears and fear and reaching beyond our resources because somebody needs Christ and you're the only act in town.
I've never recovered. But I guess I've grown up some. And I remember those saints who gave me their trust back then. I remember them with an ache of fondness. They are a living gift I will carry with me wherever I go. I'll never shake them.
Goomba
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 30
His name was Fred. He was the fiancÈ of my next door neighbor, Virginia. Her father owned an Italian restaurant. These people were ITALIAN -- these folks knew how to party. They knew where their bread came from. They said "fugedaboudit" and "You god a problem wit dat?"; they had friends with names like Fat Joey and Smacks; they made their own roasted peppers in paper bags and made their own wine.
Fred was big and loud. He worked for the city of Newark as a carpenter and maintenance man in "the projects." That was a euphemism for an annex of hell that has gladly been demolished. He faced things every day that would have put most people into a fetal position. He made it through on bluster and toughness and downright scariness. He was at home getting by on his wits and his ability to intimidate anyone who stood in his way.
By the way, I'm not Italian. I'm a WASP from way back, a son of the Revolution (the American one). I went to nice schools and wrote sermons on Saturday nights. I was a minister in the little Protestant church over by the Parkway apartments. Not much in common with this guy.
One day I was setting up an obstacle course in my backyard for the Vacation Bible School when Fred came through the gate, saying, "Hey Rev, how you doin'?" I was intrigued but a bit put off because I had too much work to do in too little time, and I had little idea how I was going to pull off running a Bible School with no help and no money, for kids from a horrendous neighborhood with no previous Sunday school experience, with little affirmation from a church that was terrified of what was happening to the town around it.
He stood there surveying what I was doing, without a clue what it was. "Hey, Fred," I said.
"This for those kids from over by the church?" he asked.
"Yeah," I answered.
Fred chewed on that for a while. I could visualize the names he had for the kids -- none of them were complimentary. He moved his head to one side and said, "Why do you do this stuff? You don't get paid enough to put up with these people."
I stood up straight and looked him square in the face, ready to defend the faith and my classic liberalism, and I realized that none of the platitudes held water or wine in his world. This man had defended himself with a monkey wrench as part of his job. "Why do you care about the repairs you make in the projects?" I asked him.
His head moved back and he looked at me with squinted eyes. I realized he was trying to figure out if I was making fun of him. I also realized that it wouldn't be pretty if he came to that conclusion. Then he paused and answered, "It's who I am. It's the way I work."
I smiled as much in relief as in gratitude for a connection. "Right... me too," I replied, and I went back to creating a pit for a tug-of-war. He didn't move.
"Ya want some pizza for the ______?"
I stood up and said, "Fred, they're my kids."
"OK, ya want some pizza for the rugrats?" A beam of sunshine shone through a heavy cloud cover.
"That would be great."
A few hours later Fred delivered six pizzas and three orders of zeppolas into the middle of a barely contained riot. He helped me run a few games and cleaned up while I drove the kids home. He became my friend. When I had my own kids they called him Uncle Freddy. And I always knew that all I'd have to do was ask, and he would have done anything to protect me or mine.
He was my "goomba" -- he protected me without saying a word. He made sure that nobody took me lightly. The Rev was an important guy to Fred. I spoke at all the family funerals, over the obvious discomfort of the priests. I was always invited to holidays and told, "Don't worry Rev, I know you're busy, but there's a place here for you."
The psalmist had a goomba, too -- God. He felt protected and cared for on a visceral level that was not limited to prayer and theology and stained-glassed sanctuaries. I learned something from my friend. I miss him.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
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StoryShare, July 8, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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What's Up This Week
"Being Helped in Spite of Himself" by Sandra Herrmann
"Harvesting What He Sowed" by Sandra Herrmann
"Shaking Dust" by C. David McKirachan
"Goomba" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
Naaman was used to being an important man -- when he said, "Jump!" he expected the response to be "How high?" But when Naaman sought healing from Elisha, he didn't understand the prophet's strange prescription at first and reacted angrily. It was only after he learned an important lesson in trust and humility (and did the prophet's bidding) that he was healed. The lessons that we learn -- sometimes serendipitously, sometimes painfully -- is the theme tying together all of the tales in this edition of StoryShare. In our featured story, Sandra Herrmann tells of a modern-day Naaman who learns a similar lesson from his secretary after impatiently unleashing a fit of rage at her. Sandra also illustrates this week's epistle passage with a story about a dashing young attorney whose inability to rein in his drinking leads to a harsh, life-changing lesson. Then David McKirachan shares a pair of pieces about the lessons he's learned -- from the difficult ministry of his first parish, and from a special "goomba" who always had his back... just like God.
* * * * * * * * *
Being Helped In Spite of Himself
Sandra Herrmann
Elisha sent a messenger to Naaman, saying, "Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall be restored and you shall be clean." But Naaman became angry and went away, saying, "I thought that for me he would surely come out, and stand and call on the name of the Lord his God, and would wave his hand over the spot, and cure the leprosy! Are not Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? Could I not wash in them, and be clean?" He turned and went away in a rage.
2 Kings 5:10-12
"Jenny, call the travel agency, please. I need to leave on the first available flight to Norway. I'll need a hotel the first night, but after that I'll be living on an oil rig. I won't need a car; the oil company's picking me up and delivering me."
"I'll get right on it, Mr. Daniels." Jenny called the agency and asked for her favorite agent. Sarah had taught Jenny the ins and outs of booking flights, and Jenny had taught Sarah what services her boss wanted. It was a perfect working relationship, one that Sarah had worked to establish. Unfortunately, Sarah was helping another customer at the moment.
"I can have her call you as soon as she's done," the receptionist told Jenny. No need even to leave a number; Jenny and Sarah were on each other's rolodexes.
Jenny went back to working on the papers on her desk.
A few minutes later, Mr. Daniels strode out of his office, and stopped short. "What are you doing, Jenny? I need that reservation, and I need it right now!" He was red in the face and scowling. Even the papers in his hand were shaking.
"Mr. Daniels!" Jenny was shocked. Her boss had never treated her this way. Something must be wrong. But when she asked, he shook the papers in her direction and ordered her to "Make that call! Right now!"
"I already have, Mr. Daniels. Sarah, our usual agent, was helping another customer. She'll get back to me in just another minute or so."
"Why on earth would you need to have Sarah? Any agent can book a flight. Now get on it!"
Jenny looked down for a second, and then nodded. "I'm calling even as we speak."
Apparently satisfied, Mr. Daniels stomped back into his office. Jenny waited as long as she thought she could, listening for Mr. Daniels as she did so. An extra minute would possibly assure that she could get Sarah on the job.
Just as she had dialed, Mr. Daniels was back at her desk. "Well?" he demanded.
Jenny held up her index finger to show him she was waiting for the phone to be answered. When the connection was made, she asked the receptionist, "Is Sarah available yet? Oh, good. Yes, I can hold." She winked and nodded at Mr. Daniels, who was still standing at her desk.
"Hold? Jenny, this is possibly the most important trip I'm taking this year. And you're on HOLD? Why, may I ask? And it had better not be that you're holding for Sarah. Get hold of an agent, and do it now!"
"Mr. Daniels," Jenny said in her best professional, calming voice, "I don't know why you're so angry. You only told me five minutes ago that you need this flight. It always takes about 10 minutes to do a booking. And Sarah is the best person in that office. I trust her to do all of the travel plans that we need, and she's never let us down."
Mr. Daniels stopped pacing and shaking, but he was still a bit red around the edges.
"You remember your last trip to Sweden? She was the one who found the artist your wife is so fond of, and got you that wonderful print to take home."
Mr. Daniels was beginning to look sheepish. "Was she the one who did that? I thought you did that."
"Well, we both get credit for that one. I remembered the artist's name, and she knew which gallery carried his work. Trust me, Mr. Daniels. We want Sarah to book your trip and hotel. She always gets it right, even the extras."
"Well, all right," he said grudgingly, "Get her on the job as soon as possible." He was no longer stomping as he returned to his office.
Jenny was never so glad to hear anyone's voice as she was to hear Sarah's. "How can I help you today, Jenny?"
"Oh, Sarah, Mr. Daniels needs to get on the first available flight to the North Sea. Something's brewing on an oil rig up there, and he's really anxious. I've never seen him so uptight."
So Sarah made all the arrangements, including a cab to pick up his suitcase before picking him up and delivering him to the plane. "Oh, and Jenny, should I have a box of his favorite chocolates on the table in his room when he gets there?"
Jenny smiled. As she had told Mr. Daniels, Sarah always came through. Even with the "extras."
Harvesting What He Sowed
Sandra Herrmann
Do not be deceived; God is not mocked, for you reap whatever you sow. If you sow to your own flesh, you will reap corruption from the flesh...
Galatians 6:7-8a
Dean leaned his hard-muscled 6'3" body against the doorway to the bar. He liked to scan a room before he entered. He also liked to give the people he was approaching a minute to admire his good looks. He had been told a few times that he looked remarkably like a certain blond movie star with his crooked smile. His height and smile usually helped in court, too.
Dean was a criminal attorney. It was a stressful job, more stressful than he'd expected. And the clients called at all hours. After all, as he often said, that's why attorneys are called "counselor." He'd found that working out at the gym helped, as did jogging, and of course a few drinks always relaxed him.
But right now he wanted female companionship. And at the bar was a redhead who was smiling at him, maybe a little shyly, maybe a bit coyly. He thought it would be a good idea to find out which it was. He was always drawn to the exotic ladies.
She was sucking an ice cube when he walked up behind her. "Could I buy you a drink to go with that?" he asked. She turned and smiled, and he could see that she definitely liked the idea. She turned out to be a good dancer, too. And more important, she was as drawn to him as he was to her.
Their whole romance seemed to be on fast forward. They did the clubs twice a week, danced till the band quit, and went back to his place because he hated to go home alone. Weekends they got out of town. They both loved to ski, and they had the money to do occasional trips to Vermont or Colorado. And that was why they got married in a chapel in Vegas -- it was just a short trip from Tahoe. Despite his past failed relationships, Dean was sure that Raina was The One. "And anyway, third time's the charm," he reassured them both.
The only catch came months after they were married, when Raina stopped drinking. He hadn't counted on that. But Raina said she didn't enjoy the bar scene anymore. She wanted her body in good shape to have a child. And he did want children. But he still need a few drinks after work, just to unwind.
"Can't you just come home and let me feed you a good meal?" Raina asked. "I could give you a nice massage, and that would relax you."
"I deserve a drink or two after a hard day. You have no idea the pressure of preparing a criminal case." Raina showed her impatience by leaving the room when he poured a second drink. Which, of course, made him angry, so he had to have a third, and then a fourth.
It took barely over a year into their marriage for Dean to leave the house when Raina said, "Please don't have another drink. Dinner's ready, and it'll get overcooked if you have another drink first." He got in the car and drove to the nearest bar. He told himself it was better for him to get out of the house. Otherwise, he'd get mad enough to slap Raina's beautiful face. And he did not want to do that.
Unfortunately, it took only three months of slamming out of the house and roaring off in his car for the local cops to start watching for him. His first DUI shook him enough that he started limiting himself to one drink a night. But when the fear wore off, he went back to drinking until Raina insisted he stop, and then he would drive to the bar again.
And then one night Raina's second-worst fear happened. Dean drove into the side of a car coming home from the bar.
"It wasn't really my fault, Raina," Dean complained. "This old codger was driving so slow, I just pulled out to pass him, and there was frost on the street. I just slid into his car."
That didn't work with Raina, nor with the court. Dean is spending the next three years in jail, his court cases have been rescheduled as his clients got new lawyers to take up their cases, and his and Raina's savings have been seized to repay those clients.
It's really too bad, because everyone expected Dean to be a great lawyer. After all, as he often said, he was smart, clever, and good-looking. That should have been enough.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady.
Shaking Dust
C. David McKirachan
Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
Ministers are transient figures. We move from place to place, carrying our gifts and skills and quirks and scars with us. I remember when I got my first church. It was a tiny inner-city parish. There was no secretary, no janitor, and a singularity of need, sucking each and every bit of my power into the limbo of survival and barely-maintained sanity. My idealism was no match for parishioners starving to death and funerals that have to take violent murder into account. I cried a lot.
I remember one session meeting that included the trustees in a discussion about the budget. The debate got hot over what to do with the money from the Coke machine. I ended up in the middle of the room trying to pry apart the stewardship chair and the president of the trustees. Peacemaking took on a whole new meaning.
I lasted five years. It felt like 50. I expected to dance away from the job that had taxed every resource, physical, emotional, and spiritual, to which I had access. I expected to spread wings that I had kept in shape only by volunteer work for the church camp, vacationing at my parents' house, continuing education, and learning how to pray constantly.
The last load I schlepped up to the manse at the new call was houseplants. I started to cry at the end of the driveway in the city and didn't stop until the driveway in the country. What the heck was wrong with me?
I realized that my failures of ministry were precious lessons. I realized that the purgatory of my first church had been the fire that forged what I'd learned from others into a personal faith that directed and led me into the pulpit and the hospital room and the committee meeting and the classroom and all the other places that ministry drags us.
I wanted to shake dust, to put it all behind me. But I realized that my very identity was tangled with the five years of ministry and struggle under that slightly dilapidated steeple on that congested and grimy corner in that bad neighborhood. I realized that the kingdom of God is not about success and failure or comfort and challenge. It's about life and suffering and tears and fear and reaching beyond our resources because somebody needs Christ and you're the only act in town.
I've never recovered. But I guess I've grown up some. And I remember those saints who gave me their trust back then. I remember them with an ache of fondness. They are a living gift I will carry with me wherever I go. I'll never shake them.
Goomba
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 30
His name was Fred. He was the fiancÈ of my next door neighbor, Virginia. Her father owned an Italian restaurant. These people were ITALIAN -- these folks knew how to party. They knew where their bread came from. They said "fugedaboudit" and "You god a problem wit dat?"; they had friends with names like Fat Joey and Smacks; they made their own roasted peppers in paper bags and made their own wine.
Fred was big and loud. He worked for the city of Newark as a carpenter and maintenance man in "the projects." That was a euphemism for an annex of hell that has gladly been demolished. He faced things every day that would have put most people into a fetal position. He made it through on bluster and toughness and downright scariness. He was at home getting by on his wits and his ability to intimidate anyone who stood in his way.
By the way, I'm not Italian. I'm a WASP from way back, a son of the Revolution (the American one). I went to nice schools and wrote sermons on Saturday nights. I was a minister in the little Protestant church over by the Parkway apartments. Not much in common with this guy.
One day I was setting up an obstacle course in my backyard for the Vacation Bible School when Fred came through the gate, saying, "Hey Rev, how you doin'?" I was intrigued but a bit put off because I had too much work to do in too little time, and I had little idea how I was going to pull off running a Bible School with no help and no money, for kids from a horrendous neighborhood with no previous Sunday school experience, with little affirmation from a church that was terrified of what was happening to the town around it.
He stood there surveying what I was doing, without a clue what it was. "Hey, Fred," I said.
"This for those kids from over by the church?" he asked.
"Yeah," I answered.
Fred chewed on that for a while. I could visualize the names he had for the kids -- none of them were complimentary. He moved his head to one side and said, "Why do you do this stuff? You don't get paid enough to put up with these people."
I stood up straight and looked him square in the face, ready to defend the faith and my classic liberalism, and I realized that none of the platitudes held water or wine in his world. This man had defended himself with a monkey wrench as part of his job. "Why do you care about the repairs you make in the projects?" I asked him.
His head moved back and he looked at me with squinted eyes. I realized he was trying to figure out if I was making fun of him. I also realized that it wouldn't be pretty if he came to that conclusion. Then he paused and answered, "It's who I am. It's the way I work."
I smiled as much in relief as in gratitude for a connection. "Right... me too," I replied, and I went back to creating a pit for a tug-of-war. He didn't move.
"Ya want some pizza for the ______?"
I stood up and said, "Fred, they're my kids."
"OK, ya want some pizza for the rugrats?" A beam of sunshine shone through a heavy cloud cover.
"That would be great."
A few hours later Fred delivered six pizzas and three orders of zeppolas into the middle of a barely contained riot. He helped me run a few games and cleaned up while I drove the kids home. He became my friend. When I had my own kids they called him Uncle Freddy. And I always knew that all I'd have to do was ask, and he would have done anything to protect me or mine.
He was my "goomba" -- he protected me without saying a word. He made sure that nobody took me lightly. The Rev was an important guy to Fred. I spoke at all the family funerals, over the obvious discomfort of the priests. I was always invited to holidays and told, "Don't worry Rev, I know you're busy, but there's a place here for you."
The psalmist had a goomba, too -- God. He felt protected and cared for on a visceral level that was not limited to prayer and theology and stained-glassed sanctuaries. I learned something from my friend. I miss him.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
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StoryShare, July 8, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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