Why Me, Lord

Why Me, Lord? T

his year I have been spending a lot of time planting things and pulling weeds. Not of my own choice, you understand, it is because bad things seem to happen to me and I get hopelessly entangled in improbable projects through no fault of my own. I try to mind my own business and then, suddenly, here I am pulling weeds and planting flowers in the hot sun and asking, why me, Lord? The story of my weed pulling and planting may be instructional and so I am telling it here in hopes that others may avoid the same fate as me. I must warn you; the account may not be suitable for everyone since it involves an affair with another woman and an, as yet, unexplained night-time escape from Roscommon by a pair of upstanding church members. The story began about the time Marjorie and I moved to Roscommon and joined the local Methodist Church. On our first visit to the church we were greeted by a woman with a pleasant smile who engaged us in chit-chat before services began. Although she seemed pleasant enough, I assumed she had been stationed at the entrance of the church specifically to way-lay unsuspecting visitors like us with the intent of collaring us for some nefarious purpose like bell-ringing in front of a Wal-Mart or caroling at a nursing home for Christmas. To my complete surprise, she didn’t ask for anything. Instead, we had a short visit in the narthex after which we entered the main part of the church for services. I forgot all about her until the next time we visited the church and, once again, there was the pleasant gray-haired lady with the nice smile. She remembered our names and again we had a brief, but pleasant exchange about the weather only this time she suggested that we meet for coffee after church. We did, and Marjorie and I both enjoyed her congenial manner once again. During the after-church visit, I happened to mention my plan for taking up gardening in Roscommon. I may have even inadvertently led her to believe that I possessed some extraordinary gardening skills. I don’t rightly remember the details, but anyway, she chanced to mention that she had been asked to form a group who would be planning a church garden and wouldn’t it be a blessing if a man of my obvious talents would consent to offer a few opinions on the subject? The gray-haired lady with the pleasant smile who remembered my name said all of the foregoing with such obvious enthusiasm that, on the spot, I agreed to attend the organizing meeting and provide my advice. At this point in the telling, I need to interrupt my account to explain the facts of the garden that I subsequently learned later. Much later, in fact, and too late to be of any value in helping prevent my current predicament. As near as I can tell, the idea for the church garden began as an after-thought from a fund-raiser. Someone had the bright idea that they could raise funds for the church by selling bricks for $100 a pop if the bricks were inscribed with the name of a loved one. Fittingly, the bricks were called memorial bricks and most who purchased the $100 bricks asked that they be inscribed “In memory of John Doe” or something similar. The fund-raiser had already been completed when I joined the church and the funds already spent. What remained was an unlikely pile of bricks neatly stacked in the narthex with each brick having a name on it. After the bricks had remained on the floor for several months, some genius in the congregation conceived the notion that the church ought to use the bricks in some manner so why not have a Memorial Garden and use the Memorial Bricks in the garden? The question then became who would be foolish enough to take on the task of creating a garden and ‘planting’ the Memorial Bricks? Everyone in church knew the gray-haired woman with her ever-pleasant smile and her reputation as an effective volunteer for worthwhile projects. Maybe she could be convinced to take on the task, the Pastor reasoned. It turned out that she was too smart even for a seasoned veteran like the Pastor who had seen his share of fund-raisers and botched projects like church gardens. When the wily old preacher approached the gray-haired lady she said of course, she would be happy to help BY GETTING A COMMITTEE TOGETHER WHO WOULD TAKE ON THE ACTUAL TASK. Such was the situation when I happened to drink coffee with the gray-haired lady and agreed to attend the first meeting. She began the meeting of the Memorial Garden Committee with a little speech about the need for a leader who could take on the job of developing a garden. Most of us in the meeting used the next several minutes to study our fingernails. After an awkward silence, one man and wife team announced that the two of them would volunteer to become co-chairs of the effort. In short order, the wife took over the meeting and outlined a plan for removing sod from the designated area as a first step in creating a garden. The husband nodded his head and announced his plan to build a pergola in the cleared area. Things seemed to be progressing nicely until the pair asked for workers to implement the plan and, once again, a deadly silence prevailed over the meeting. I decided to study my fingernails again. After inspecting them carefully, I looked up to survey the committee members and from the corner of my eye I saw the gray-haired lady’s ever-present smile begin to fade. I surprised myself. “Aw shucks,” I said, “I’ll be happy to help get things started.” Her smile returned. So I helped in removing the sod. Later, I took on additional gardening tasks when I realized that, except for the couple who led the project, most of the other gardeners were either codgers so old they could barely pick up a shovel or goldbrickers with more excuses than a seventh-grade truant. Nevertheless, during the first year of operation the garden was laid out, the pergola was built and flowers were planted. Then a catastrophe struck. The co-leaders of the garden suddenly decided to leave the church – they sold their home and moved away, almost in the middle of the night, it seemed. Suddenly, it seemed to me that I was the only active worker on the committee and if we were to have a garden at all I would need to take charge. So I did. Fast forward several years. The garden has become a beautiful, quiet corner of the church as result of lots of work and help from several folks. Although I frequently grumble about the work and ask, why me, I admire the colorful perennials and the climbing vines over the pergola. I laid the paving stones under the pergola so that visitors could sit on the benches in the shade of the vines and gaze at the names of those who have gone before. Sometimes, when I work among the flowers and the shrubs and the trees and the Memorial Bricks under the pergola, I look at the stone I laid in memory of the gray-haired lady with the ever-present smile, and I imagine she is still smiling.