Lumber—Loading Angel
Joining Thomas Merton’s ‘House of Prayer’ movement. Dr. Gary Straub. Pentecost— 24
As America’s most famous monk and Kentucky’s sterling rural saint, Thomas Merton created a new habit: forming his own House of Prayer Movement. He imaginated a loosely affiliated network of places of hospitality, serving as a healing respite where pilgrims could stay and pray. In the early 90’s I was taken by ‘all things Merton’ and this particularly lovely but ‘Airie-Fairie’ notion. I bought Merton’s book and began building a sanctuary cabin in the most god—forsaken tract of Franklin County, KY… Bald Knob.
While serving as Sr Minister of the block-long, downtown Disciple church in the Capitol City, my ‘days off’ were spent scurrying to supply a local carpentry crew with all the rough-cut, saw—mill poplar boards needed for a ‘board and batten’ exterior on the prayer cabin. The carpentry crew worked harder if a case of Ale—8 was involved.
My Hard-Shell Baptist neighbors kept asking: a) why I was raising a cozy cabin with ‘citified comforts’ on the highest hilltop in Bald Knob? b) why such a labor— intensive exterior, when pressboard and tarpaper would do? I judged the rustic cabin look would be enhanced by saw-mill poplar board, rough cut right here in the Commonwealth. None of the loafers up at Haile’s Country Market withheld their opinionated judgment. Behold: the joy of a city boy practicing up on country life! Reviewing my lumber bills, siding woulda been cheaper and saved me innumerable mad—scramble trips for lumber over to Buzzard Roost near Baghdad, Ky. My mission was to load up enough lumber to supply our energetic carpenters with boards to pound while refreshing w/ flagons of Ale 8. These guys were earnest workers, but could get grumpy if they ran out of boards before quitting time. (Or Ale 8 for that matter)
So. every evening, I hopped in my pickup and tore off —around the twists, turns, & blind curves—dodging road-kill critters galore towards Ralph’s Farm Implement Junk Store and Lumber Yard, located on the Old Buzzard Roost Rd. First thing I learned was to mind was my manners. You don’t just rush in and out of Ralph’s. Good Old Boy country etiquette requires a full mandatory ‘howdy,’ followed by sitting a spell and gossiping about people you don’t even know. Finally, Ralph called his rowdy court to order. With his front store-room fill of Good OBs, he and I talked church amidst eye-rolling, snorts and sneers.
As the chief elder and guardian angel of little ol’ Waddy Christian Church, Ralph’s gab—sessions were basically prayer meetings. He figured a little religion would do most of these ol’ reprobates and rascals some good. I obliged. After 15 minutes of church talk, he’d call for the benediction. I learned to not fidget until Ralph was done humorizing and sermonizing. I also knew as soon as I hit the door, that passel of good ol’ boys would crank up smarty—pants cracks to adjust the atmosphere and assuage their smirky guilt for never darkening the door of their own church. I understood the drill—having a ‘Rev’ around was integral to the entertainment venue! One OB delighted in embarrassing me with rude questions, hoping to get a rise —maybe a blush out of me. I always laid back and played dumb till I fed him enough rope; then hung him up out to dry with a crisp Father Mulcahy witticism. GAME OVER! Suddenly, 6 trucks fired up and spun gravel. Oops, running late!Gotta Go, Ralph!
Despite the ordeal of running Ralph’s theological gaunlet, did I mention his prices were rock—bottom & super high quality? He even let me hand-pick my own boards. He’d pile me up, tie me off and turn me loose as I roared down Buzzard Roost back to Bald Knob. However, please note the boards hung —way too long— over the truck bed, the road-load felt off kilter. At driving 30mph they bounced/scraped bottom, esp. up hill.
As dark descended, I dodged the deer and possums, fearing my framing crew already called it a day. I whipped into my gravel lane at 1975 Harp Pike. Uh-Oh! Heavy rain! Creek’s UP—No bridge! NO problem, right? I slapped my 4x4 into low-low gear, revved the engine, spin the tires and dragged bottom across the creek. My brilliant transport plan plopped that whole dang lumber load smack dab in the middle of the creek. My father’s colorful Marine Corps Drill Instructor vocabulary arose in my throat. Instead, I sloshed to my boot-tops and started dragging and stacking those waterlogged boards to reload. I was 3 boards into my task when a big strapping guy in bibs hopped out of his pickup and helped me haul that wet lumber to dry land. He never said a word; never even acknowledged my presence; never broke a sweat. He swiftly and silently stacked up my sopping lumber. As I slapped the last 2 boards over to the dry side, I turned to thank him and invite him up for dinner. Gone! Just flat GONE! He done disappeared! Never laid eyes on that man or his honk’in dualie truck again for the whole 8 years we lived up in Bald Knob….. I just want to testify…. the Lord sent me a lumber-loading angel!