Short Stories

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SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY


As a boy growing up in the south, I often ran barefoot through the marshes to meet the pier from which I would cast my crude fishing line into the Combahee River, hoping for some sport as well as a fish or two. Our home was expansive, complete with plantation style columns and old elm trees dripping with Spanish moss in the front yard. In spite of the many comforts of home, my boyish imagination conjured up images of myself as a poverty stricken youngster, a lost soul seeking refuge. Perhaps the knowledge that I was adopted as an infant lent itself to an empathetic attachment to my natural mother and the misfortune I imagined she had suffered to have given up her baby.


Central to my understanding of God was the joy of worship, an appreciation of His mercy and loving kindness that I witnessed so frequently at church picnics. The extended family of friends and loved ones left me with no need for self-pity, yet deep within my soul I longed for my estranged and beloved biological mother.


The years moved quickly and steadily and as I grew my bare feet found shoes in which to preach, for I had attended seminary and now I had my own church, complete with friendly picnic fellowships to attend and babies to dedicate. The seasons circled quickly with my schedule full of people, appointments, weddings, and funerals. And then within a year, both of my loving parents unexpectedly passed. The pattern of their lives had been consistent, much like the current of the Combahee - so constant and reliable that one barely notices its movement and change.


With their passing came a resurfacing of my desire to find my real mother. My search consumed me until I found myself in Ontario, Canada. After a number of phone calls arrangements were made – I would drive to her house and visit with her there. Following the directions I was surprised to arrive at a beautiful home, immaculately landscaped with perfectly appointed grounds. On the front lawn paced an anxious looking woman, hands wringing. Her clothing was of finest quality and she was adorned with lovely and costly jewelry. As I headed toward her, I ran. We embraced and tears were plenteous. The afternoon passed with polite conversation and although I desperately wanted to ask that one most vital question, I refrained. For somehow the need to know “why” seemed less significant. With evening approaching I arose to leave and taking my mother’s hands I asked of her, “Is there anything that you need? Is there anything that I can do for you?” With fervent embrace, sordid tears, and stammering voice she simply replied, “Please, just love me.”


That moment was frozen in my heart and mind, a timeless measurement of God’s mercy. It seemed that my life since infancy – the family, friends, and seminary had all been investments of God’s gift of love so that I would be able to pass it on to my mother. For certainly I knew that as much as I would never be able to comprehend why my mother forsook me as an infant, much more I could never comprehend the love of God who gave up His son for those who loved Him not. Finally, the dots were all connected. The reason for redemption was clear. My purpose in life had more meaning. In each face of the congregation I see my mother, crying out to the Lord, “Please, just love me”, and my heart is kept warm with prayer that His love will fully embrace each one entrusted to my pastoral care.

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