Pilgrimage Continued

"Nothing you do for children is ever wasted."
Garrison Keilor

One of the reasons I survived my crazy alcoholic family was our minister David Brown. The first time I met him I burst out laughing to see him wearing a Bach sweatshirt. He and I laughed together from then on. He was a free spirit, with a childlike joie de vivre. I delighted to hear him shout, “Good God on a bicycle!” when surprised or vexed. At the time I fancied myself a cartoonist and put together daily cartoon strip modeled closely on Peanuts. Every time he saw me he’d rub his hands together and say, “Where are the cartoons?” Of course, I’d immediately pull out my latest offerings, and he’d eagerly read each one and giggle. Can you imagine what that did to my shy 11-year old heart? My brothers were as much in love with him as I was because he never talked down to kids, but treated us all like we had good sense.

Shortly before we moved, I asked if, when I got married, he’d perform the ceremony. To my delight he burst into song: “I’d do anything for you dear anything…”
But it was not to be. When I was fourteen he died suddenly. He was 46. My mother said I grieved like it was my own father. I still miss him.

Years ago I made a paper mache heart with doors opening into the four chambers. In them I put photos of the people who made a difference in my life—my aunt, grandparents, friends. It seemed surprising that we never took a picture of David Brown. After forty years I could barely remember what he looked like—chubby face, curly red hair, turned up nose, big mouth. How I’d love to have a picture of him.

Then an opportunity came up to visit my old home town. Suddenly it occurred to me that I could attend services. And maybe, just maybe I would find an older member who has a photo of the man who changed my life.

My friend Laurie drove me down there. Our old stone building has been replaced by a modern Frank Lloyd Wright-style sanctuary. I recognized no one. The congregation was mostly young; they were between ministers. No one made any effort to welcome me. There was no chance to introduce myself. After services I did spot a few old people and rushed up. But the two people who remembered David Brown were not keen to talk to me. I wandered over to Laurie, thinking, “Well I guess I’m not supposed to get a photo.” “Are you ready to go?” I asked her.

But no, she wanted to introduce me to an old friend of hers, a struggling writer like me. We had a nice little chat. I told her about my various writing projects. The friend said, “I just finished making a DVD of our church’s history.” A light went off in my head. “Do you by any chance have a photo of David Brown?” I asked. “Just a minute,” she said, opening a binder and leafing through it. Five seconds later she pulled out a very familiar photo. Two minutes after that, she’d made me a copy of the one and only David Brown.

He is in my heart.