Pastor Nance

I, personally, have two pastors in my life. I have the pastor I had when I was a kid, who I still think of as my pastor. And I have my pastor/friend/mentor, appropriately named Paul, who has been helping me for years to find my way and be faithful in what I do. I love them both.

Unfortunately, we found out last night that the pastor of my youth, Willard Nance, has passed away. I have to admit it’s got me feeling pretty down. It’s sad to see him go, but he was very ill, very old, and it’s good to know his suffering is over. He had a stroke a few years ago, and he was incapacitated by it. I went to visit him a few times and he became frustrated and agitated because he couldn’t communicate clearly and we couldn’t understand him. It was miserable and it made me feel bad for him, but I couldn’t do anything about it.

I could write a book with memories of this pastor. We went to church a lot in those days. Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. Plus, eventually, youth group things with our youth leader, a guy named Gary. It was a big part of my childhood and teen years. I remember standing in the baptismal pool and being dunked by Pastor Nance. I remember going to a Holloween party in the church basement, and finding a creepy person in a mask that all the kids were standing around, trying to figure out who it was. It was driving us crazy, and it ended up being the last person we would have guessed. It was our pastor.

A pastor who wears creepy Holloween masks to spook the kids. Or, just a pastor who will wear a Holloween mask in the first place. That’s my role model. And he was a great role model. We KNEW he loved us.

And there was never any doubt about how Pastor Nance loved Jesus. He loved the Gospel. He knew what the word “grace” means because he believed so much grace had been poured out on him. I don’t know the details, but we heard glimpses of stories over the years about how he had struggled with substance abuse in his younger years. We knew that when he presented the Gospel, he was sharing something that was very personal for him. It mattered to him, so it mattered to us.

He never had a mega-church. He wasn’t asked to speak at conferences. He didn’t do a lot of big, impressive things in the eyes of the world. He was a working class, working man’s pastor, and I loved him for it. He was a great man, but not for the usual reasons people might bring up. He was a great man because he had a great love for Christ and he acted on that love. He served faithfully for years until he literally couldn’t stand anymore.

He is one of my heroes, and he will be greatly missed.


Peace to the family and friends of Willard Nance.

© LW Publishing 2011

Tonsils

My brother and I had our tonsils removed at the same time. This was common practice back in the day. One kid gets tonsilitis, so we better just put them all in the hospital and get it taken care of and the parents can have a night to themselves. I was very young and very nervous about the whole thing.

Yes, they really did put us in the hospital for a whole night back then, and I can still picture that room in my mind. It was kind of dark and creepy, late sixties style. But we got to eat a lot of ice cream afterwards. A LOT. These days, I’m sure, the insurance companies probably force you to get your tonsils cut out of your head as you drive by the hospital in your car. Come to think of it, you just don’t hear about people getting their tonsils out much anymore. Is it no longer en vogue? It used to be a rite of passage.

I still sometimes wonder where my tonsils are. If anywhere. Did they burn them up or did they just throw them in the trash? Are my dried up little tonsils still laying in a plastic bag in some dump somewhere under 500,000 pounds of who knows what? Or did a creepy doctor surreptitiously take them home and put them in a glass case as some kind of strange trophy? Perhaps he had them for dinner, Hannibal Lecter style? I’m thinking, if he mixed them up with chicken gizzards, he could have served them to guests, none the wiser...

Hey. You go ahead to the bathroom and puke. I’ll wait for you. La di da di dum dum dum. La di da di doooooooooo...

So, anyway. What I wish sometimes is: I wish they had given my tonsils back to me in a glass jar full of formaldehyde so I could bring them out and sit them on the table whenever conversations started to lag. I imagine that being a good way to get things going again. The thing is, I don’t remember giving anyone permission to take them from me in the first place. It’s not like there was a tonsil fairy to recompense me for my loss.

Here’s something nice that happened: Before we went home, the pastor of my church came and visited us at the hospital. He didn’t make it to everything, because he couldn’t, but this time he came, and I remember it very specifically. He gave both of us one of those drawing boards with the plastic sheet on it. A Magic Slate. You draw your picture, look at it, consider how fleeting life is, then pull up the plastic to erase the picture. Ta daaaah.

Okay, I admit it. We didn’t really consider how fleeting life is. But it was fun and it was a kindness. It was a small grace that made a kid feel a little better. And I hope my life is that way for others. Small graces are all I have to give most of the time.

By the way. If you see my tonsils laying around anywhere, would you please contact me so I can retrieve them? Thanks. And....

Peace to you.

© LW Publishing 2010