Never say never (again!)

I 'm done. Yeah, like a turkey. Finished. Never again. Don't say those words. They'll come back to get you.

Unless you're smart, like my dear friend Daisy. Just add a disclaimer. A condition.

Daisy was the cook at the conference center where PH and I lived the first 10 years of raising our brood. Daisy said PH was the finest little Christian bossman she'd ever had. Her words. And I still believe it to be amongst the highest of compliments he's ever received.(But that's another story and I've already got two going here...) Anyway, Daisy loved to go to the dog tracks. She and her daughter, Jerlean, would regale me with tales of their weekend adventures at the tracks every Monday. Sometimes they'd win, but not often.

Then the tornado hit. Jerlean was there when it hit, and it was mighty scary. Lights went out and protective bars came down over the money windows. No one was hurt, but it was an evening to remember. Daisy wasn't there. She and Henry were in his truck. On the WAY to the tracks. Daisy said it was the scariest moment of her life. "I got down on my knees and I told God if he got me outta there I'd never go to the tracks again!"

Well,God came through, Daisy lived to tell me the tale.

Fast forward a few weeks... A Monday morning and Daisy is telling me about going to the tracks again. "Daisy," I said, "I thought you told God you'd never go the tracks again! What happened?"
"I SAID I'd never go again... in a thunderstorm!"

Ever since, when I say, " never again," I add, "in a thunderstorm." Or maybe in Hawaii.

So what did I do?? you ask.

Well....most of you know I co-owned a decorative painting company for 10 or so years. That may sound a little more impressive than it was. I mean it IS impressive. We were very good. But the "company" was a company of two. What should I blogname my business partner? Hmm. When you've painted behind toilets together on a regular basis, you know a lot about another person. I think I'll just call her PartnerDarling.

PD and I painted many things. We have been in the rafters of many Little Rock churches, a few others farther afield, some at the Capitol, the old state house... And more powder rooms, dining rooms, nurseries, bedrooms and kitchens than you can shake a stick at. We have also painted floors. Some to look like slate, some to look like marble, oh you name it, PD and I did it.

And a few years back I declared I was DONE. Like a turkey. Finished. Bever again. No More Floors.

In a thunderstorm.

Because yesterday, in Hawaii, I painted 4 floors.

We have been the guests of Malcolm and Imogene these last 3 weeks. Mal and Mo are 90 years old. They are the Reason we ended up here, I think. I know our stay here would not have been the same without them. We saw them the first night at the sports bar ( previous post). They invited us up later for wine and cheese. I rode to church with them on Sunday. We had them to our place for dinner last week. They've told us stories. Like the one about sitting in church with Joan Baez in the 60's. And Mal shared his books with us. His first book was written in the 70's, Healing Is For Real. He tells stories of his early ministry. I found myself moved by the profound absence of ego in his tales. He was so far ahead of his time. An excerpt:

Another incident,...was the time the police called me to help them subdue one of my parishioners who had gone on a rampage in a local bar. The police knew him as ordinarily a law abiding citizen, and wanted to avoid using strong arm tactics to bring him under control. I wasn't enthusiastic about going into the bar for him. It seemed just a little bit like Daniel going into the lion's den, and I didn't feel as secure as Daniel is reported to have been. The man out of control was a big person and he had intimidated everyone in the bar, so like Dopey in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, I was sort of pushed into the bar with the others right behind me- way behind me.

I really felt relieved when he reacted like a small boy being caught stealing the jam, as soon as he recognized my clerical collar. Just as peaceful as a lamb he walked with me to the police car and got in without an argument. Once underway he started to get unruly again, but all I had to do was speak his name and he'd say, "Sorry, Father," and calm down. Because he had caused some damage, the police felt they should keep him overnight, so they put him in a cell. As soon as they closed the door on him he began to scream in genuine terror, complaining that "they were after him." Later on I learned that he was reliving an experience from the war where he had been trapped in a shell-hole with two Japanese soldiers, both of whom he had to kill.

"Let me out of here-they're gonna get me. Oh, my God, let me out of here!"

I could see that this was no ordinary case of drunkenness, but something deeper and much more complex. This was a sick man, there was no doubt about that. I managed to get his attention, and again, when he saw me he was able to concentrate on what I was saying, even though he was still cringing against the wall. He was panting and the beads of perspiration covered his brow. It was a pitiful sight to behold. He spoke to me.

"Doesn't anyone understand?"

"Yes, there is someone who understands. Jesus understands."

"Can he help any?"

"Yes, through me he can give you his blessing."

"Will it help?"

"Yes, I am sure it will help."

I made the sign of the cross toward him and gave him the blessing "in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost." Then a most remarkable thing occurred. Standing against the wall he looked like he'd been shot. With a dazed look on his face his. Body went limp and he slid down the wall on to the bed and rolled over sound asleep. One of the policemen stood there with his mouth agape, completely dumbfounded.

"I never saw anything like this in my life before!"

Though I felt the same as he did, I never let on that this wasn't normal procedure in my book. Before leaving the station I told the officer that I felt that the man was sick and should be in a hospital rather than a jail cell. The following day he was taken to the VA hospital where he was treated, responding well to psychotherapy. Later on I learned from one of the doctors that he had told them the only one who believed he was sick was the young priest, and he appreciated that.

First published in 1972. PTSD, anyone?

Mo came into the picture a mere 25 years ago. She is an elegant, statuesque beauty who carries herself with abounding grace. She and I bonded as women immediately. And she loves chocolate.

Needless to say,PH and I are crazy about them.

So when Mal started sneaking up to the house in front of our cottage to touch up the painted floors, I intervened. He said he didn't want to disturb us, blah, blah, blah.

PH and I painted the floors. Did I mention that Mal is 90?

It only took a bit of an afternoon and it won't be in any magazines, but I might have gotten more pleasure out of painting those floors than I did out of all the many many floors that have gone before. Malcolm said as he was thanking us, "Sometimes you just know something is right."

Tomorrow I'm taking Mo some fudge sauce.

Never say never. You might miss out.