What You Don't Know About Your Pastor

Some time ago my father (who is a pastor) got into a debate with an old member.  Now I will not go into full details, but I will tell you it was about money that churches take in.  The debate ended with my father blocking the individual.  When my father told me about the conversation, at first I was irritated, but then I realized this individual had no clue what my father had done for their family because they were simply too young at the time their family left the church. 

I remember when this person’s father came to our house every three days asking for twenty dollars for gas and food for his several children, and my father giving it to him.

I remember when the church was going on a trip and this person’s parents decided to go “in faith” knowing that they didn’t have ANY money for hotel or food for them and their several children.  So my father being the person that he is, instead of giving them gas money to get back home, he paid for their family during the entire trip.

I remember my father taking the young boys, including this person’s brothers to their football practices, and my father paying for their equipment.

I remember the prayers, the counseling sessions, the mentoring all to make this person’s parents better people.  And I see the fruit of my father’s labors.  You see all their children are doing well.  College educated, good jobs with families of their own.  But that is in part due to the fact that my father, their pastor, took the time out of his life to help somebody else. 

You see for every crooked pastor, there are three more who are working themselves to the bone for the people in their congregation.  And this is what I want you to know about your pastor, and that is they labor over you.  They pray over you.  They want the best for you.  And they want you to become better, not just for yourself, but for your children.  

A Life Worth Living

Back in 2007 I had gone with my two youngest sisters and two friends to an art museum in Detroit called the Detroit Institute of Art, better known as the DIA.  Now I was in a fashion show earlier that day so I was meeting them at the museum after the show.  By the time I had found them they had only been there for a half an hour, but that was just enough time for them to start to get into trouble.  I walked up on them just in time to catch my friend Brian (a habitual prankster and chronic picker) had about convinced my baby sister Tina into climbing into a medieval stone sarcophagus.  I still don’t know what Brian gave my sisters, but I’m pretty sure it was candy, caffeine, and cocaine, because they were unusually hyper and hell bent on misbehaving.  Unfortunately I spent the rest of my evening saying “Stop that” and “Don’t touch that”.  At one point the elder of the two (Angelina) was trying to take a picture of Tina in front of a chair made of cardboard.  Angelina told Tina to back up, and Tina not paying attention clipped the edge of the platform and actually fell onto the display knocking the cardboard chair over.  Thank God it was not damaged, but that was the point when I decided it was time to go. 

Fast forward to 2015 my youngest sister and I were back at the museum, but it was altogether an entirely different experience.  The hyper child was gone, replaced by an older thoughtful young woman, and an artist herself.  Gone was the child who felt the need to touch the Native American ritual knives to see if they were still sharp, and standing before me was the woman whose face was inches from the paintings studying every little detail.  Where before I had to get her attention to look at a cool statue, she now was explaining to me what an artist was trying to convey. 

The Finding of Moses by Laurent de La Hyre

At one point she said something to me that struck a chord.  We were standing in front of this gorgeous oil painting, The Finding of Moses, by Laurent de La Hyre.  The colors were rich and vibrant.  The scenery seemed so real that one could almost smell the water.  As I admired the painting, Tina pointed out the moss on the tree and said,

 “It’s the little details that makes a picture look more real.”

As I pondered her simple statement about a painting I thought about how true it was, and it caused me to reflect on the lives of loved ones that have passed on.  Because you see it is the simple things, not the big things, that add meaning to our lives.  I thought about my grandfather who would sing me gospel hymns and call me a princess.  I thought about my Uncle Raymond and how I missed the political debates between him and my Uncle Bernard at family gatherings.  I thought about my playful little cousins Little Tuttie, Baby Patty, and Judah gone from this world too soon.  And my grandmother Patricia Barr, oh how I miss her.  She had many names.  Pastor Barr, Sister Barr, Prophetess Barr, Mother Barr, but the grandkids, we all called her Momma Pat.  At times when it seemed as if your world was crumbling apart you could go to her and she would say, “Oh the devil is a liar!  Not my grandbaby!”  And no matter where she was at, she would stop and pray and everything would be alright.

There are more that have passed on, so many more, too many more.  Aunts, uncles, great-grandparents, grandparents, cousins and friends.  But one thing that they all have in common is that it’s not the clothes, the jewelry, or the cars they drove that I remember.  It’s the smiles, the hugs, the laughs, kind words, and yes even stern rebukes.  It’s the fragrance of homemade rolls, and tastes of fresh baked pies.  It’s watching God answer a prayer because the matriarchs could “get a prayer through”.  It’s the funny stories, the pranks, and inside jokes.  Its water balloon fights, volleyball games, and horseshoes.  Its kissed booboos, lullabies, and gentle reassurances.  It’s these small things, those little simple things, which lets you know someone lived a life worth living, because they leave you with a memory worth having.  It’s the simple details that makes love more real.