Simple Gifts

          I was going to post something else tonight.  I was going to post about the usual family stuff, along with photos and a recipe for the panko-breaded pork chops I made for dinner.  And I will, another time.  But my heart is pulling me in another direction, towards a man and a particular brand of faith in God that has influenced my spirituality since childhood.

         Let me back up and explain.  After my mother left my father when I was six, we lived with my aunt and uncle and five cousins for a year before moving into a tiny 1-bedroom apartment in Milford, New Hampshire.  We'd been attending a couple of churches before then, and now started going to First Baptist Church there in Milford.  It was different from the Baptist churches I've been to in the South, closer to the roots of American Christianity.  A little more "old school".  It didn't sport fancy screens to display worship lyrics, or even really have a worship band.  It had a grand, beautiful pipe organ that reached all the way to the ceiling, wooden pews with long, dusty-smelling cushions, and a giant teddy bear of a man for a pastor.

           Especially from a kid's perspective, Pastor Miller was huge and dignified, almost stern looking.  My sister Mandi told our mom she couldn't invite him to dinner because he was too big to fit through the door.  But the first time I ever heard him laugh put those preconceived ideas to shame.  He didn't laugh; he boomed with a deep, rich laughter that almost matched his singing voice.  He'd once served in the Marines, and sang in their choir.  So every Sunday, you could hear his opera-worthy voice accompanying the joyful tones of the pipe organ in worship.  He was also a police officer, and would always smile and wave from his patrol car when we saw him in town.

            Like pretty much everyone at that church, Pastor Miller never failed to give me and my sister big bear hugs at church.  As a child of divorced parents, I savored every single one, because I knew without question that this man loved and accepted our family, regardless of where we'd come from.  He wasn't a man who flaunted his clergy status, but went about his ministry with a simple brand of love and kindness that I'm still chasing to this day.

            He spoke the same words of welcome and benediction nearly every Sunday, but always with the same intonation of goodwill to the people he was praying over.  I distinctly remember one funeral service he performed, the father of my best friend Shana.  He was a Hindu from Ghana who'd converted to Christianity and then died of kidney failure.  I wasn't sure what to think of his relatives who'd come to mourn; they were mostly Hindu, and a couple of them liked to wail really loudly as part of that mourning.  Pastor Miller offered a communion service that day, as always saying that we were free to partake or free not to.  But here's the thing; he always said it with a gentleness of spirit that said you were welcome regardless of whether or not you took it.

           He was so warm and understanding that day, that the memory has become a gift in my heart.  I've only met a precious few examples in my life of genuine Christlike love, and only one or two of those have been pastors.  If you've ever met these people, you've seen this pure, unfettered love and compassion pouring from them like spring water.  To Pastor Miller, it wasn't the formal trappings and rituals of a church that mattered, or how many people he converted, or even how much got put in the collection plate.  To him, it was people who mattered.  And he was so like Christ in that respect, that I find myself wishing I'd paid closer attention to what he said from the pulpit.

           I hadn't seen or spoken to Pastor Miller in 16 years, but when I heard he'd died today, I still felt like crying.  Even though he's home with the Lord now, I feel bad for the people still here on earth that they don't get to hear his belly laugh or know the profound words of love, mercy, and grace he gave to the people around him.  Hopefully he can read this from Heaven, and know that I'm thankful for the love he showed us and the spiritual wisdom he imparted.

             Now I have a feeling I'll spend the rest of my adult life trying feebly to do the same.