The Bench

This week's song - In The Blood - by John Mayer - Great song about the role of DNA in our lives. Take a listen.

September 2001

I believe in magic.

I've never been here alone. When I’ve frequented this beautiful park, it has generally been hand-in-hand with a child or a beautiful woman, but never on my own. Near the water, just next to the playground, you’ll find a bench. Parents sit and watch their children at play. Young people in love sit and talk about their future after walking along the path by the lake. Children get their photo taken. When a tornado recently visited the hallowed park, it uprooted trees, destroyed structures, and ripped apart playground equipment. After the storm did its worst, the bench remained. I knew that in order to find the words for this piece, I needed to drop by and take a seat on the bench. On an early fall Saturday in 2000, before the leaves changed and the heat relented, I visited the park, as I had on many occasions, with my wife and two young children. Shelby was 4, Andy a mere 18 months. Although I've been back many times, that was the last time with Cheryl. I am immediately confronted by the bitter-sweet memory of a day in 2001 when I had my photo taken here with Shelby and Andy. It was a day to celebrate their mother and the dedication of the bench in her honor. I’ve always enjoyed visiting the bench and hearing of others who have seen or used it. I’m proud to see my children’s little handprints preserved in concrete on the ground just in front of the bench. I place my hands on the prints and close my eyes, trying to remember when their hands were this size. They are now 21 and 18. I look up to the bench and see the marker that reads “In Memory of Cheryl W. Pryor - A Mother Who Loved This Park,”  and I delight in the fact so many see her name. There is still an element of disbelief. I hope people read it aloud, letting the sound of it carry into the air.

Jeremiah and Jackson on the Bench

I was drawn here on this day because of my trip to the great Pacific Northwest this past weekend where, on Sunday, I sat in a small Presbyterian church in Clarkston, Washington. It seemed like a million miles away. I sat in a pew near the back, bundled in winter clothes and listened to the pastor’s sermon. I shared the lord’s supper with seventy-five congregants which included my wife, Nancy, and my baby girl. It is Shelby’s church, her family so far from home. When the young pastor and his wife asked her to babysit months ago, they picked the right girl. Shelby is the conscientious and caring child I hoped she would be when Cheryl told me she was pregnant on a beautiful October day in 1995. She is my fair-haired servant of the Lord who follows her heart and his teachings. She’ll be the first exhibit of my closing argument to Saint Peter. I’m counting on her…heavily. She became a youth leader in the church.  Shelby has become a regular in the pastor's home.

We broke bread Sunday night with Pastor Dave Webster and his wife, Dawn, while their three children, Jeremiah, Jackson and Mary, ran through the house, the sound of running bare feet dominating the air. We spoke of Seahawks football, the terrible state of my football program and, of course, my Shelby. I thanked them for inviting her into their church, for inviting her into their home and for watching after her while she was so far from her father. It is hard to say these things. Saying them brings home the fact she is grown and far away. We talked about the unbelievable coincidence that their first church out of seminary was Concord Presbyterian, a beautiful church down by the lake just a couple of miles from where I live and grew up. We talked about Knoxville and people we both knew. We talked about the unbelievable coincidence that my daughter would find them and their church so many miles from home. It's a small world. And then, we talked about the bench. 

Dave and Dawn often frequented this park - The Cove - during their brief time in Knoxville. They know the park. They know the bench. In their scrapbooks, tucked on a shelf in Clarkston, Washington, so far from Knoxville, my daughter stumbled across the photos of Jeremiah and Jackson Webster taken in the sacred place we often frequented when she was a child. In the photos, two little happy faces smile from a bench dedicated to Shelby’s mother. Sometimes “It's a small world,” doesn’t really cut it. Sometimes we have to wonder what magic is at work in our world just beyond the conscious, patiently waiting to reveal itself. How much is there to be seen yet escapes our sight? When it does reveal itself, do we always take it in, hold it, and appreciate the magic? Probably not. But, on this fall day, as the sun shines and children play, I sit on the bench and take in the magic.

I love this park.