A Flower for the Preacher

A Flower for the Preacher      by Rebecca Frazier 

I stumbled through the doors of the nursing home, my arms full with a box of flowers. The torrential rain outside had me dripping but I couldn’t even bother to wipe my feet as the box began to slip from my grasp. My shoes squeaked and sloshed as I approached the front desk where the familiar faces of nurses smiled to greet me.
“They’ve all been waiting for you.” nurse Sylvia scolded.
Sylvia’s stern face told of her day’s frustrations. I knew Miss Paula had probably pestered the staff as to when I would arrive. I also knew when I got to her room she would pout for the first little while for making her wait. I didn’t even bother with drying myself off but quickly repositioned the sagging cardboard box on my hip and headed down the first hall.
For the six years I had been coming each week, I never became accustomed to the smell of the state run facility. The smell of sewage, amid urine and poor hygiene, could be overwhelming but I found that as soon as I began engaging with the tenants of Crocket Nursing Home I could set the odor aside. I did my best to treat them with dignity and care despite their current living conditions. After-all these were ladies and gentlemen who had once lived in the grandeur of a fine southern life.
The first door I came to was Cora’s. As the mother of six boys, she had devoted her life to endless football practices and games and as the wife of a well-known attorney, she had learned all the social graces of a fine lady. She kept a delicate smile on her face and her hair was done to perfection each time I stopped by. I pulled out a pink tulip for her and spoke loudly and clearly,

“MISS CORA” She turned and looked up. I was amazed at her beauty; with her white hair and stunning blue eyes. I extended the flower to her,

“ HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.”

With seamless manners she accepted. I knew she would not see any of her boys for Mother’s Day, so when she asked me to sit for a while and look through her photo books I accepted just as politely. As I sat and looked through Cora’s photographs, I thought of my own mother, Maymie Catherine Call. She was the most grand woman I had ever known. And yet she died in a place much like Crocket home. I had been too busy and too hateful to care about her. It was something I lived with daily and now the sting of regret rushed through my entire body.
I left Miss Cora and walked down the hallway to each door with the same salutation. Some women cried while others showed no reaction at all. The pastel flowers shown in sharp contrast to their drab and dingy rooms. I exited out of the last room of the first corridor and turned into the next passageway of the home. It was then that I noticed at the end of the hall, sitting just outside her room, was Miss Paula in her wheelchair. Her aged body slumped down and her head hung low while her whole framed shook. I knelt down in front of her chair and with the same cheer wished her a Happy Mother’s Day.

“ You don’t even want to see me, she barked, “ don’t put that filthy flower near me!’
I began to stroke her trembling hand and tried to look up into her face to make eye contact. She tilted her face up just enough for me to see her nasty scowl.
“ Oh, Miss Paula, don’t be that way now.” I chided.

And just as always, she softened and cried and hugged and then begged me not to go. A woman well ahead of her time, Miss Paula had divorced her cheating husband, had run him out of the house in a very public way and had paid a price, in the form of gossip, from all the pretenders in town. Paula Pickett had then gone back to school and had become an architect. A professional woman in a world dominated by men was tough in her day and it had left her hardened and bitter.

My box of flowers now mostly distributed, I stopped at the doorway of the Preacher’s room. He sat with his back to me, under the small hanging light at his desk and typed on an old style, Hermes black typewriter. He would stop periodically to pull back the jammed keys. Under his breath, I could hear him pronounce, “ Amen,” and “ Thank ya Jesus”.

I could sit with Preacher Gaines for hours. His skill of composing stirring vignettes moved me. At the conclusion of each sermon I felt like celebrating or singing. I could imagine myself as a boy sitting in his pew in exchange with his pulpit; his enlivened dialogue and charisma with my need to hear the Word. But a boy like me, in the south back then, would have never been in one of his pews. It was curious to me, as I leaned into his doorway, that the word of God knew segregation. If I had embraced the good word then, maybe my life would have started off in a better direction.

Preacher Gaines pulled the last paper from the typewriter and added it to the pile, his sermon complete. He knew full well that his parishioners were long gone now. He sat forward in his chair and began reading. His words were powerful and his inflection of voice was perfectly timed.

With hands raised, his deep tones began in scolding concern,
“ Would we or could we stand for a man, black or white, who was too indifferent or too frightened or too alienated or too self-absorbed to “get involved’’ in helping a fellow human being in dire trouble?”
“In the New Testament, Jesus teaches us, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.”

Preacher then commenced to unfold the story of the Good Samaritan. I listened intently and as he recited perfectly the words of Luke, I began to hear the sound of my own mother’s voice layering with his,

” But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was and had compassion on him...and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, ...and took care of him.”
Hearing my own mother’s voice again in unison with Preacher’s, in a place long forgotten was fitting for the day. For me, it seemed almost like redemption. In my dreamy state I saw my Mother speaking the words, teaching me the importance of caring for my fellow man. Humbly, I recognized the gift Preacher had provided. I had been fortunate enough to be reminded of a cherished memory with my own Mother. I reached into my box for a flower and set it on Preacher’s food tray. Not wanting to interrupt the sermon or break the feeling of my own reminiscence, I slipped out quietly and whispered as I walked away, “ Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”  


In the early 90's I went each month to a Tennessee state run nursing home with a group of 4 young women. The first time I went I was so nervous and truly hated the smell but after many visits we all began to look forward to our visits with these people. It was really somethin' to see these four Mormon girls sit in with the Preacher and hear his sermons. And Miss Paula represented here was always outside her room in her wheelchair ready to pick a fight. With some consistent love and time she would always begin to weep when we left. We did bring flowers on Mother's day and other kinds of gifts for other holidays. I learned so much in the time I spent here with Hallie Mayes, Shelby Hubbard, Tiffany Gresham and  Jessica Lane and others.