What Pastors Do on Summer Vacation: Part 3 of a Trilogy, In Which I Stand My Ground

“I’m glad you didn’t shoot me!” were the man’s final words to me.

I was lounging on the screen porch of our condo that morning, sipping orange juice as I read the paper.  I had returned already from my sunrise beach walk, and Andy was off on his morning bike ride.  The kids hadn’t yet come over from their condo for breakfast, but I had left the front door unlocked for their arrival. I heard the front door open and, thinking that it was strange that they had come over so much earlier than usual, got up to greet them. As I peered from the bright sunlight of the porch into the semi-darkness of the interior, I saw the outline of my son-in-law getting water from the kitchen sink.  “Good morning!” I called. He replied, “Good morning” and looked up.

It was not my son-in-law.

“Umm, I think you’re in the wrong condo.”  (Every condo in the complex is identical in layout and furniture.)

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” The man looked shocked and embarrassed as he moved to the door so quickly that he even forgot to turn off the running water. “This isn’t 2A?”

“No, it’s 1A.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t shoot me!” were his final words as he slipped out the door.

Shoot him? While I’m not an expert on such matters, I don’t think Bad Guys are older men who pause for a glass of water before doing their Bad Guy Stuff. Even if he had been a Bad Guy, I was standing at the porch door and could’ve been outside long before he could have gotten out of the kitchen. While it was surprising to find a strange man in my kitchen, I never felt endangered in the least. Why would he think that I would shoot him?[1]

Oh. Then I remembered.  We were in Florida.[2]

 

Luckily, I decided to stand my ground with just my own two feet, which worked out perfectly fine for both of us.

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[1] Approximately 96.7% of the time, finding a strange man in my kitchen would cause me to scream, run, and possibly fling large pots and pans.  However, an old guy getting water from the sink happens to fall within the 3.3% of non-panic inducing situations.

[2] The George Zimmerman “Stand Your Ground” case continued to rage in Florida newspaper editorials while we were there. I could’ve shot him, I’m pretty sure, and not gotten convicted. Apparently, he was aware of that fact also.

What Pastors Do on Summer Vacations- Part 2

I’ve never attended a funeral in my swimsuit before.

We have a timeshare, one of the old-fashioned types, where you stay in the exact same place the exact same weeks each year. There are 32 units at our place, and we have gotten to know people over the past dozen+ years simply by virtue of proximity. (For instance, we know to dread the noise from the party-hearty types that show up each year for week 30.) Over the years, we’ve shared some significant life events together.  Some life events happen at the beach itself, such as the year our daughter was rushed to the ICU with undiagnosed and life-threatening juvenile diabetes. Most events happen during the other 51 weeks of the year, and we share them with each other annually in beach conversations or in passing.

This year, there had been a loss to death. I knew the man only from watching him kitesurf in front of our beach, marveling at how high he could fly into the air. A brain aneurysm claimed him over Memorial Day weekend.  Although he was my age, it fell to his mother to plan his funeral. His surfing buddies suggested a “paddle out” as an appropriate way to memorialize him.  Word spread. I offered my services as a pastor, but another pastor who stayed there had offered already.  (Imagine that- 2 pastors at the same place!) 

And so we gathered on the beach on a Wednesday afternoon. His 5 siblings spoke of the man and their love for him. There were funny memories and laughter, the way that there usually is, and talk of his excellence in his profession as a partner at a major accounting firm. The outer ring of us stood in tribute to a man whom we knew only for his soaring above the sea, tethered to a kite and a surfboard. It was beautiful and perfect, and the pastor said exactly the right things. When the talking was done, the nieces and nephews got on surfboards and paddled out past the sandbar.  There, ashes and flowers were showered into the sea. And the salt of tears mixed with the salt of the ocean, even for those of us in the outer circle.

That night, we were in our condo when Andy called us out to the porch. The family had one more act of tribute, lighting floating lanterns that sailed into the night sky towards the full moon.  The beauty of those lights floating off gave us goosebumps, as we heard the echoes of voices calling out his name one last time into the sea air.

Families come in all sorts of different ways, shapes, and sizes. Until this year, though, I never realized that family can come a week at a time.