Tenderloin Sandwich as Art Miles 5420-5480 July 8

Margaret Won’t Go Home Miles 5555-5605 July 12

Courage comes in many guises and is found in unexpected places. I’m here this morning at the Mill Inn for my usual biscuits and gravy. The place is packed this morning, and Margaret is busy at the grill. Last week I came later in the morning and she was working the cash register and waiting on customers at the counter. A customer commented on her versatility. “After 22 years here, I can do it all,” she said.

Her good cheer and easy manner drew us into conversation. Her husband had been sick and had several operations. They had breakfast one morning two years ago. She returned a little later and found him dead. “You never get over a shock like that,” she said.

When her shift at the Mill Inn is over, Margaret won’t go home. She works six hours at Wal-Mart. “Oh, that’s nothing. I used to have four jobs. I’ve got my health and I like people. And when your husband dies and there’s lots of bills, you have to work.” None of this is said with even a hint of complaint or self pity. More like the commander of an army still engaged in battle, expecting at any moment to see the white flag of surrender run up by the enemy.

Here’s to you Margaret Mollenbrink. I salute you. I admire you. We treasure your presence among us. You encourage and inspire us.

Tom’s Funeral Miles 5605-5635 July 13

I didn’t go to Tom’s funeral. At the appointed time for his service to begin I got on my bicycle for a solitary ride through open country. I surrendered my dream of being a minister years ago when as a college student I pastored a small church and would cry more than the bereaved when death came. Funerals leave me sad beyond redemption for days afterward.

I admired and respected Tom Bray. The exotic flowers and birds and animals he cared for set him apart from other people I know. But the way he drew people to him was breath taking to behold. Today as I ride I think of Tom. I think of another summer Sunday, June 21, 1987. I was riding my bicycle that day, enroute from Orlando to Seattle to Anaheim, when I came to Tom and Barbara’s house. Here is what I wrote about that day.

Highway 50 is crowded with Sunday afternoon lake traffic and impatient drivers as we ride from Syracuse to Knob Noster. When we arrive about five o'clock in Knob Noster, John says this has been his least pleasant day. The traffic congestion and noise took away the fun.

Tom and Barbara Bray are standing in front of the church as we pull into Knob Noster. Quick as a flash, we're at the parsonage downing iced tea and cokes, followed by a hot shower. All the Bray's bedrooms are spoken for tonight and probably for many nights to come. Tom and Barbara run Grand Central Station; people are coming and going, reveling in one another's company for the two hours we are here before we all go to the evening service.

To church at seven, Tom tells his people what I'm doing, then turns the service over to me to tell my story. From the moment I stand, I can sense the congregation with me. Knowing that causes my story to dance out of my mouth and into their hearts: I see it in their eyes and in the rapt expression on their faces. When I ask them at the end to help me figure out what is happening, they are quick to respond.

"You are being used by God," says a man near the back. Others murmur agreement.

"Do you know how uncomfortable I am with that notion?" I ask. "Who am I that God would want to use me? I could never say about myself the thing you just said. The very thought of it scares me to death. I'm deeply grateful that some see such meaning in what I'm doing.

"But I can't give it a name. Something deep inside resists. What I can tell you, what I must tell you, is that I have to ride this bicycle across the country; I have to visit with people and share with them my dream of a world where people like each other, and everyone expects good from everyone else.

"And because I expect good, I can trust people to draw their own conclusions about the meaning of what I do and why I do it. I'm trusting people to meet my needs for food and shelter. I must trust them, too, to make up their own minds about my motivation.

"Even as I ride, newspapers in every town I pass through carry stories about one television preacher laid low by a sex scandal, while another is up in a tower saying God will kill him if people don't send him eight million dollars. The ease with these two and their legions of counterparts invoke God prompts in me a reluctance I can't overcome. Not from action do I shrink, but from explaining it, from describing it in the stained glass voice so loud in our land."

After church, many people come to say kind and encouraging things to me. And it is this brief one-on-one conversation that most energizes me. To take their hand and stand close and speak quietly of things that matter deeply to us, things we can't often bring ourselves to mention, is to stand with one foot in heaven. And it is in moments like this that I find my voice for the things I cannot say to an audience. Or in a book.

Then back to the Brays for dinner. A big group is present, and as we eat and talk I feel good all over. I can feel the love. See it in faces, hear its voices. This is not a feeling I've had often in my life. But occasionally at church it happens. And the hope of it happening again is enough to keep me coming back.

Marian and Ann Morgan had arrived at the Bray's shortly after we did. They had been members of the Bray's church in Madisonville, Kentucky. "Wherever you find the Brays, you find people who love them and each other." Marian says to us all several times during the evening.

Ann mentions the Emmaus Movement and tells me I would find a ready audience for my message among them. Explaining the movement, Ann uses the word crilliso. A bell rings. Lynn! Atlanta! The four day weekend!.

So long, Tom. I’ll catch up with you somewhere down the road.