My grandmother was thrilled that I was stopping by the church on my way home from school.
It was 1968, and my Mom, my sisters and I had moved back to Fort Worth and were living with my grandmother. My Dad had disappeared after his drinking had bottomed out. We didn’t know where he was. I was going to Paschal High School, where my parents and several cousins had gone to school. Fort Worth was home and family, and yet I was terribly disoriented. I had grown up in a small town in Northwest New Mexico called Farmington, and had expected to graduate from high school there. When the drinking unraveled our world, I was suddenly thrust into Paschal as a new kid, something I had never experienced. I’d made some friends through the church, but I was still shell shocked – I thought it was from the sudden relocation. I was to discover 20 years later I was in shock from PTSD because of violence that had occurred with my Dad just before we moved out of the house.
The church was right next to the high school, so it was convenient to stop by on my way home after school. Several of my new friends went by as well, and it was a safe place to be. My grandmother was a staunch Methodist, and had been all her life, so she was delighted to see my new found interest in church. If you were at church, it didn’t matter what you were doing. Which, as it turns out, was a good thing.
The church had set up a Youth Center on the second floor, which included a pool table. Somehow I never got around to mentioning that to my grandmother. A group of us would hang out and play pool for a couple of hours before supper. It was a great time, and helped me bond with this new group of people I had met. Sunday mornings we had one of our youth Sunday School classes in this room. Then Sunday night we met in this same room for Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF) and would have discussions about a wide range of topics. That room had a comfortable feel – it was like my new home – and I was glad to have that stability with all the changes that had happened in my life.
The other thing that I got to do after school was visit with the Youth Minister. He was a really great guy. His name was Richard, and he said he was from Kings County in New York City – so he had the accent. He was Italian – so he had a bit of that accent. He had been in Texas for a number of years, so the flavor of that accent was creeping in. It made for an interesting accent stew. He once told us he had stopped watching The Untouchables because they kept having his relatives on the show. He said it with a straight face, and I never had the nerve to ask if he was serious or joking.
Richard was also a big guy – as I remember he went around 6 foot 4, and about 250 pounds. Our big bonding experience with him had been on a retreat at the Methodist Camp at Glen Rose, Texas. There was a river running behind the camp, and we had threatened for weeks to dunk him in it. When it came time for the event, it was like a bunch of mosquitoes bouncing off an elephant. We were knee deep in the river, surrounding him, and the six of us weren’t even coming close to knocking him down. He’d just laugh as we pulled on his arm, or wound ourselves around his leg. Finally I think he saw that he was wearing us out, and gave us a break, letting us pull him down so that he was sitting in the water. Great victory for us, but he was just that kind of guy.
Then we did a Christmas play that holiday season, and Richard directed. It was some odd story about aliens coming to earth and learning about God through our holiday experiences. One of my buddies was supposed to say the line “tending the sheep and milking the cows.” But in rehearsal, he kept saying “tending the cows, and milking the sheep,” and the visual of that cracked us up every time. By the time of the performance, we were all waiting for it, and when he blew the line, the whole cast was barely able to keep from falling down with laughter.
I had some great experiences at that church before I went off to college, and I bonded with some neat people. Today I have lunch occasionally with one of the guys who helped dunk Richard in the river, and still talk to another one. It was a solid and healing time.
But the most memorable – and healing – part of it all was talking to Richard in his office after school. He and I would sit in 
his office and visit. I felt a hurt down deep in my gut that I couldn’t explain, and would never have dared to try to talk to someone about it. For some reason, in our family, you just didn’t do that. But I think Richard sensed something. He would talk with me very lovingly and sympathetically. Almost like he was talking to a wounded person – which he was, not physically, but emotionally. I couldn’t tell him about the emotional wounds – I didn’t know they were there until many years later. But I could talk about my feelings and misgivings about church, and my faith.
I had attended church since I was a child, but had never really been able to connect with what went on there. Something was holding me back. It had gotten to the point where I went to the Sunday morning service only if we couldn’t find a way to sneak out to the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street and hang out until it was over. Talking with Richard was different – the way he talked, I got it. I shared some of my doubts, and admitted I just really didn’t know much about church. When I sat in Sunday School, I didn’t really get much out of it – the lessons just didn’t grab my attention. It was like they were talking about things foreign to me. They would talk in abstract concepts that didn’t give me anything to hold on to, so my mind would drift a lot.
Richard didn’t berate me for that, but seemed to understand. He gave me a copy of the New Testament called “Good News For Modern Man.” It was more in an informal, conversational language, and much easier to read than the older translations used during lessons. I took heart – I felt like I was really getting somewhere.
But more than that, I felt a safety and warmth from Richard – which I’d never experienced around a grown man before. (He was all of 22, but that was really old at the time.) He gave me a reason to want to try to listen, to try to understand. Being in his presence was very calming and healing.
I went off to college, and didn’t see much of Richard. I went by his new church once and visited, and he was delighted to see me, and we visited for a while. I caught him up on my life, and I tried to express how important he had been to me. Then he moved to a church in another town, and I lost track of him.
Richard passed away several years ago. They funeral was held at the church he had founded in Fort Worth. I went by the funeral home to the viewing, and was deeply upset to see him lying there. He was a vital part of my healing process, and I am forever grateful for everything he gave me. Most of all, I appreciated the safety he allowed me, to say I didn’t understand church, and have him quietly nod his head, instead of berating me for not getting it right.
Thank you Richard! I miss you.
Read Full Post »
How My Writing Got Locked Up.”
Thoughts Along The Road to Healing 