On weekdays, he drove either a red pickup or a green
tractor, wearing a blue chambray shirt under pin-striped overalls. The pale head, normally covered by a seed
corn cap, was only revealed on Sundays, when Herman* would put on his best dark
suit, crisp white shirt and tie, shoes shined.
He was a constant in the church, more predictable than the squares of
Jello at the funeral lunches.
Oh, there were other people assigned to be greeters, of
course, but Herman would never think of giving up his post in the narthex each
Sunday. He would be there to meet you as
soon as your foot hit that top step, take your hand into both of his rough ones
and look you in the eye as though he had been searching for you for a long,
long time.
Herman was the first one to show up at church on Sunday and made
sure he was there early for funerals as well, to help the funeral home staff
make all the necessary preparations. On
wintry days, even after the custodian had cleared the walks, he was out
sprinkling extra grit on the icy spots so that no one would fall. Candle lighters were readied and lit for the
acolytes as he cautioned them each time about holding the angle so as not to
let wax run down inside where he would have to dig it out with his pen
knife. As the youth began to show up less
frequently for their appointed duties, Herman took it upon himself to light the
candles.
Ushering was his joy and he took great pride in directing
the collection of the offering and the orderly procession to the communion
rail. He used that footage with the
efficiency of a man who had worked many a field carefully from fence to fence. Without
fail, he calculated correctly how many people could kneel there comfortably next
to one another without crowding and had the next phalanx ready to advance as
soon as the ones ahead of them received their blessing and rose to exit (to the
sides, please.)
Woe to the secretary, who at the beginning of the year when
new officers took over council positions, also left a description of ushering
responsibilities in his mailbox. He
marched into the office in his overalls with that piece of paper in his hand,
shaking as he shouted about what an insult had been dealt him. No amount of apologizing would console him,
and we walked back out, spent, his head down.
Yet it was the secretary he called at home one Saturday
night in the spring, after the corn had been planted. “I don’t think I’m going to make it to church
tomorrow” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I just don’t feel good at all. Will you make sure the candles get lit?” “I will, Herman," I said. “Don’t you worry.
The candles will be lit.”
Herman never lit those candles again. But the light that was Herman’s life had been
passed on countless times in his 80-plus years, multiplying exponentially as it
went. You may not have known him, but
chances are you’ve received that light from someone who received it from
someone who received it from someone…who received it from Herman.
*(not his real name)
Beautiful...
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