AFTERNOON COFFEE (A BITTERSWEET MEMORY . . . )

Five O’Clock Coffee . . . (A Bittersweet Memory)

            Kermit, Texas is a small West Texas oilfield town near the New Mexico border.  It‘s a place that you have to be going to, to get there.  In fact, were it not for the discovery of oil and gas in that part of the Permian Basin, nobody would have ever gone there for it would not even exist.  It would be open pasture through which the occasional cow – or cowboy – might pass.
 
          When I was serving there as a pastor in the mid-nineties Kermit was already in evident decline from its heyday of some 25 years before.  All the businesses there were related directly or

Kermit, Texas. 
I did not leave my heart there . . .

indirectly to the oil business; and so lots of them had sold out, their owners had left, and empty stores just stood there waiting and collecting West Texas sand.  Perhaps if an empty store could speak it would wonder aloud if anyone was ever going to want to buy it and operate there anymore. 

           The United Methodist Church building where I worked most of the week was not dead or sold; yet the church membership was composed primarily of elderly members.  They were people who had known Kermit when times were good, and as they aged they decided to stay on, when their younger kin and friends had moved elsewhere.  I came there right after having served three years in campus ministry, and I was eager to get back to a regular pulpit ministry.  I missed preaching, and had asked for the change.

            There was one other point of notoriety about Kermit and Winkler County that I was soon to learn:  some of the hottest temperatures in all of Texas have been recorded right there.  Summer days of 110 and more are not uncommon (I remember one time I drove back from summer camp in the mountains with some of our church youth.  When I got out of the church van at the First Church parking lot it was 5:00 p.m. in the afternoon, and 117 degrees!  Nevertheless there were

They had a nice building, those Methodists.
But their preacher's attitude didn't match it.

some older parts of town where some city fathers had had the presence of mind to plant some trees early in the town’s history.  One of my oldest living members lived on one of those streets.  His name was Clarence Henderson. 

        Clarence was one of the most godly men I have ever met (and I am writing this about thirteen years after his death).  What was funny is that both my wife and I both thought this about him from the first day we met him.  I had met him at the NM Conference session a few days before, and my wife met him for the first time on the day we moved to Kermit from Portales, New Mexico.  He was 91 then and moved slowly, but we felt God’s presence as soon as he came into the room to meet us.  He was slightly shorter than me, humped over just a little bit, and very thin.  He had a thin face, a good crop of white hair cut in a nice business-like way, a twinkle in his eyes, and a ready, winsome smile for anyone he met. 
I always looked forward to his visits at the office or the house because he always had words of encouragement for me.  He had more than that though; Clarence also had lots of good and godly advice on how best to serve that church as a pastor.  But I had come out of campus ministry, as I said, and somehow, I had this feeling that instinctively I knew just what to do.  I thought I knew just what this church needed:  it needed me!  Period. 

This wasn't exactly my attitude when I
served there . . . but it was close!

         That attitude (and other things) kept me from recognizing good advice when I got it, and then following it when I understood it.  There were so many signs and markers there in Kermit that I was not serving the church to the best of my ability, and not listening to God or His people about what was best to do in a given situation.  So many signs, and I managed to miss them all!  In some respects that time in my life remains a great mystery to me:  why was I so stubborn, spiritually deaf, and blind?  Why did I not even perceive the possibility of finding ways to meet those folks at least halfway, or more?  Why did I not listen?  Why did I sin so much by attending to non-Christian distractions at that time?  I know the answer to at least some of these questions (see below), but for right now, I’ll simply say I was a very sinful man, disguised as a pastor, at this time of my life. 

            But Clarence, to his everlasting credit, never gave up on me, and did his part to steer me
back to the straight and narrow.  Clarence never tired of lovingly befriending me first, and helping me to serve and lead that church, second.  Several months after I got there Clarence was diagnosed with congestive heart failure – not surprising given his age.  Shortly after that diagnosis he told me in one of his visits that his daughter and son-in-law were coming to live with him and care for him during these last years of his life, however long or short that would be.  They actually

There were trees on his street -- and that
meant some much needed shade!

sold their home where they lived in central Texas so they could move into his nice ranch-style home.  Clarence lived in a yellow, paneled house, sheltered by old mulberry and pecan trees that offered some much needed comfort and shade in that hot little town. 
          I was very impressed by the selfless act of his daughter and son-in-law.  It deeply moved me at the time; but then I suppose I shouldn’t have been that surprised.  After all this was the daughter of the holiest man I had ever met.  It might have been more surprising if she had not proven to be a chip off the old block.

            After Carla and Bill got settled, I started dropping by their house more often, over on South Cedar Street.  I usually timed my visits to after 4:00 p.m. or so, because Clarence was up from his nap by then.  I’d meet Carla there at the door, or Clarence would be calling from his easy chair to come on in.  (Usually Bill would be out back, puttering around the yard or the work shed.  There were many unfinished projects in and around Clarence’s home, and his son-in-law was a good handyman for all such things.)  I’d come riding up the front walk on my bike, and could see right into their front room through the screen door.  I’d hear the swamp cooler churning away on the roof as I passed the threshold.

          Since I got there usually around 4:00 p.m., it was of course the hottest part of the day, so

On hot days their front screen
door was always open for visitors.

Carla would offer me a glass of water for starters.  Then after I got seated, either she or Clarence would offer me some coffee!  He had gotten into the habit of either making a fresh pot in the afternoon or saving some leftover coffee from the morning (and reheating it!).  Either way, if I was there, I was always welcome to it.  The first time he made the offer he also explained that his cardiac care doctor had recommended a cup of coffee in the afternoon to give his heart a little energy, or a “jump start”.  That makes sense to me, but it also tasted good and brought more alertness to me.  I needed it too on those hot afternoons when most people would still be finishing up their ‘siesta’.  Anyway I suddenly realized for the first time in my life just how good this stuff tasted in the afternoon!  From that point on I was hooked.  At home I began to save a leftover cup of coffee from breakfast time, so I could enjoy it later in the afternoon.

        So we’d sip coffee together and chat about the church, the town, the state, or the nation.  Usually Bill would come in from the back yard, wipe the sweat off his forehead and join us for a cup; or more often he would go for the huge ice tea pitcher that Carla had prepared in the

I soon learned what a welcome sight
this could be on a hot afternoon . . . .

refrigerator.  After about a half an hour of visiting or so, I would offer to pray for the family, and we would also pray for the church as a whole.  I liked Clarence and his “children” because we could talk about anything under the (hot) sun.

         Life went on like this for awhile in Kermit, Texas.  But alas, the mistakes I was making eventually caught up with me.  Then there came that staff-parish relations committee meeting in late February of 1996.  I was expecting to be asked to return for another year at that meeting, but to my great surprise, it turned out I had assumed way too much!  The committee contained several members who did not think I was doing my assigned job well enough.  They were right as a matter of fact, but I was too immature to understand that then.  The committee voted, and it was a split vote.  A couple of weeks later they brought in the district superintendent to arbitrate, and Doug – a fine man of God – came over and attended a special meeting (I was not present then, at the committee’s request). 

           The upshot of it was that they decided it was time for me to move on.  I don’t mind telling you I was fairly broken-hearted over this, and at the time I thought it was unfair for as hard as I thought that I had worked.  Yet, as I moved on from Kermit with my family, the Lord (several years later) did a work in my heart, and He let me know what I had done wrong, and why the folks there had felt so strongly that I was not serving them well.

        What I had done wrong quite simply was what I mentioned above:  I failed to listen to them.  I had spent at least a year and a half of my time there listening to the voice of the evil one, and not to

It is a childish thing to refuse
to listen to God.  But that was me.

the voice of Jesus Christ my Lord.  And when you listen to the voice of evil, you cannot even hear God speak to you.  And if you cannot hear Him speak, then there is no chance of your being able to obey Him.  I also had not been listening to the people as they patiently told me what they wanted out of me.  But because I did not listen I could not offer them the help and the leadership that they wanted and needed from me.

        But all of this suddenly affected my relationship with Clarence.  I was so hurt and embarrassed by the committee’s decision at the time that I found it hard to face my friends.  I had only a very few real friends there in Kermit, but Clarence had been one of them.  When I got this word of my impending move in late February and early March, I sort of crawled into my shell after that.  I continued visiting people – but only the people who were elderly and not on any committees.  I saw people who didn’t know about the committee’s decision, or hadn’t found out about it yet.  Since it was a small town, and everyone would find out in time, I soon stopped seeing everybody – unless it was an out-of-town hospital visit.  The reason for this was I just didn’t want to

talk about it; I didn’t want to face people and struggle to answer their questions about my forthcoming departure.  Being asked to leave in the United Methodist Church is like being fired. 

I still think about him
from time to time, with a
big sigh . . . .

For awhile it hurts just about the same.

        This means I very abruptly stopped going to see Clarence and his family.  I had been visiting them at least once each week, for a long time.  But from late March on I never went by again.  I did see them all in worship.  I talked with Clarence maybe once on the phone after that February staff-parish committee meeting.  But I didn’t go by his house any more.  I didn’t drink coffee with his family.  It was just too embarrassing.

        I was embarrassed because I knew Clarence had tried to help me out along the way.  He had tried in his own polite way to let me know people had concerns, or that maybe I was leading too strongly in the wrong direction.  But I either ignored his advice, or misinterpreted it.  And of course, it cost me.  So I couldn’t face him.

         He died a few years later at a very great age, but I had never contacted him again or spoke to him from that winter on.  (I do recall sending him a nice card for his 95^th birthday.  I lived far away from Kermit at that time.)  I always felt badly about that.  He had so much to teach me, and I learned so little.  Perhaps now, in the presence of Jesus Christ, Clarence has forgiven me.  Knowing the kind of man he was, that is very believable.  Anyway, I still carry on the good habit of afternoon coffee.  I learned that from him.  And sometimes when I have that afternoon mug, I let something deep inside me remind me of the times I was befriended by him, and the time I let him down.  The coffee still tastes so good, but there is this bitter aftertaste.  It will probably be my fate to taste that bitter taste of regret for the rest of my life . . . .

LBC