Tales of the sacred and slightly ricidulous
The retired pastor from the local church wandered into reception at the Strahan Motel one afternoon.
I was a little askance—he lives in town, after all. Why did he need a room for the night?
Yes, he’s stepped down from the pulpit, but no, he hasn’t retired from work. He still runs a gravel and sand business. He asked for my boss’s mobile number. I found it. Gave it.
Then we chatted. I mentioned life on the road, and how I’ll be leaving in six weeks.
He listened closely, watched my face. When I finished, he tilted his head and asked:
“Do you have a gun?”
My eyebrows shot up. “No.”
He frowned. “You need a gun. To be safe.”
I smiled. “Actually,’ and I pointed skyward …’I am carrying protection.”
The entendre was lost on him as he narrowed his eyes.
Then, without a blink, he reached across the counter, placed a hand on my shoulder, and launched into a prayer. He asked God to keep me safe, and to show others the spirit I carry within. I bowed my head and joined him at the finish line: “In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
I was surprised, and thought his concerns for my safety were unwarranted, but mostly I thought it was sweet.
Now that I reflect on it, I suspect the prayer was more for him than for me—perhaps to ease a sense of guilt that he couldn’t protect me himself. Or assuage his inbuilt duty of care, despite being retired, to shepherd a wayward sheep.
After he left, I shrugged. A man of God, handing my spirit over to God. Fair enough.
Still; a retired pastor asking me if I had a gun.
Only in Strahan.
And me?
I consider the whole thing a blessing from the gods of the universe— the ones who, I’m convinced, carry a wicked sense of humor… and maybe a smirk just for me.
Photo Courtesy of Josh Applegate (Unsplash)
Christine Writer 