When I was a pastor in Florida, our church always made a big deal of Mother's Day by distributing colorful blossoms to 3 special women. So one year after recognizing all the mothers in general by asking them to stand, I proceeded to give out bouquets of flowers to the special categories. First, the mother who was the youngest was found and laden with an armful of carnations.
Next I asked for the mother present who had the most children. When we had winnowed that down to the fruitfullest of the fruitful, she also was decked with colorful foliage.
Now it was time to find the oldest mother. Since this was Florida, we always saved time if we started the count down in the 80s. We had reached 89, and one old lady thought she had hit the jackpot when no more candidates yelled out any numbers beyond that.
Shifting gradually toward her and clutching in my hand the bouquet I was about to bequeath, I queried the congregation one more time, "Is there any other mother here who is older than 89?" as I scoured the congregation. There was no response. But my periphery caught a feeble little hand pop up behind some heads on the far right. Redirecting myself to her location, I said, "No more phone calls; we have a winner."
Heads were turning as I walked down the aisle and approached a bent up, wrinkled little old soul. I recognized her. It was Margaret, a long-time member of our church from Switzerland, waiting for me in her pew. In recent years Margaret had been draped by our church with more flowers than American Pharaoh because of her ascending age. Into her waiting hands I immediately placed a nice, large garland of fresh roses.
Then, I asked her this question, "Margaret, are you older than 89?”
I placed the microphone by her mouth. "Yes," she said, "I am 96." The congregation cooed.
"Margaret, would you please tell the congregation how many children you have had?" Again, I bent over and squarely placed the microphone in front of her crinkled lips so the crucial answer we were all waiting for could clearly be broadcast on our loudspeakers.
"None; I've never been married.”
As if we were in a comedy club, a tumultuous roar ascended.
Margaret was almost as deaf as a mechanic on a Harley-Davidson racetrack, but somehow she had been able to cipher the words "older than 89" and jack up her arm in the nick of time to snatch the reward from the octogenarian.
I stood there frozen in place with a blank expression still holding the microphone without having moved it, looking at Margaret looking at me, thinking, "Oh crap, what have I done? I just gave away flowers marked for the eldest woman who had borne offspring to an old maid.”
Grinning like Cheshire cats, everybody now stared at me, recognizing the dilemma I had just created. It seemed like time had stopped. I looked at the flowers in her hand. Her fingers were curled and locked around the stems of those roses like a vice.
Then, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly, I said, "Ah, just keep 'em."
Next I asked for the mother present who had the most children. When we had winnowed that down to the fruitfullest of the fruitful, she also was decked with colorful foliage.
Now it was time to find the oldest mother. Since this was Florida, we always saved time if we started the count down in the 80s. We had reached 89, and one old lady thought she had hit the jackpot when no more candidates yelled out any numbers beyond that.
Shifting gradually toward her and clutching in my hand the bouquet I was about to bequeath, I queried the congregation one more time, "Is there any other mother here who is older than 89?" as I scoured the congregation. There was no response. But my periphery caught a feeble little hand pop up behind some heads on the far right. Redirecting myself to her location, I said, "No more phone calls; we have a winner."
Heads were turning as I walked down the aisle and approached a bent up, wrinkled little old soul. I recognized her. It was Margaret, a long-time member of our church from Switzerland, waiting for me in her pew. In recent years Margaret had been draped by our church with more flowers than American Pharaoh because of her ascending age. Into her waiting hands I immediately placed a nice, large garland of fresh roses.
Then, I asked her this question, "Margaret, are you older than 89?”
I placed the microphone by her mouth. "Yes," she said, "I am 96." The congregation cooed.
"Margaret, would you please tell the congregation how many children you have had?" Again, I bent over and squarely placed the microphone in front of her crinkled lips so the crucial answer we were all waiting for could clearly be broadcast on our loudspeakers.
"None; I've never been married.”
As if we were in a comedy club, a tumultuous roar ascended.
Margaret was almost as deaf as a mechanic on a Harley-Davidson racetrack, but somehow she had been able to cipher the words "older than 89" and jack up her arm in the nick of time to snatch the reward from the octogenarian.
I stood there frozen in place with a blank expression still holding the microphone without having moved it, looking at Margaret looking at me, thinking, "Oh crap, what have I done? I just gave away flowers marked for the eldest woman who had borne offspring to an old maid.”
Grinning like Cheshire cats, everybody now stared at me, recognizing the dilemma I had just created. It seemed like time had stopped. I looked at the flowers in her hand. Her fingers were curled and locked around the stems of those roses like a vice.
Then, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly, I said, "Ah, just keep 'em."