What good would Frank do?

The nice thing about real friends is they tell you the truth. The whole truth. The other day I was sitting in my home office, doing one of the things I’m good at. Writing a funeral sermon. One of our dear saints had passed away at the age of

99, and I’d been listening to people talk about her, and reflecting on my memory of our several visits, and praying a little on the side, and it was time to put my fingers on the keyboard and start writing.

Now if all you want is a cookie cutter funeral sermon where you mention the deceased in passing and mostly stick to the script you use for every single person, you’ve got the wrong minister. But we’ve all got our skills, and I’m a writer, and a story teller, and I love people. I love the fact people are different, and that each is a snowflake, unique, fragile, and just passing through. For me the funeral is a chance for us to praise God by telling that part of God’s story that is revealed through each person.

So anyway I was just getting started when the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and no name popped up, and I get robo calls just like all of you, but I decided on a whim to answer this time.

It was my friend Ken. He was on his way to an appointment with a client (Ken does drafting) and he’d stopped at the church to pick up stuff from his mailbox and when he got back in the truck and turned the key it just clicked. Nothing. Dead as a doornail.

So Ken called his wife to ask what he should do and she said, “Call Frank.” And Ken, who is as honest as the day is long, said:

“What good would Frank do?” Now mind you, that’s not something that’s a secret. I say it myself all the time, not so much as an excuse, but an explanation. We’re all good at things. My friend is one of those practical people who can fiddle with almost anything to get it to work. His profession is drafting, and as a favor to us he drew out elaborate plans when we decided to remodel our house a few years back to make the upstairs handicap accessible.

Those drawings were so clear – what with creating a large bathroom out of two smaller ones, bringing the laundry upstairs, enlarging the master bedroom so one day, if necessary, it could house a hospital bed, and just in general

But me? Folks know when you need someone to help and it involves a hammer or gears or real things you call me and say, “Is Jennie there? Can I speak to her for a minute?”

Fortunately Ken’s wife had pointed out all he might need is to jump the battery and I could drive over and stand to the side and let him do all the work. Which is exactly what happened. It took me five minutes to get there, I parked, popped open the trunk, and stood back while Ken hooked everything up, waited a second, turned the key, and his truck started right up. Problem solved.

At that moment I realized, as different as we are when it comes to skills (and trust me, we’re both very good at very different things), that we were both wearing Tilley hats. You know, floppy hats that protect your head in rain, snow, sleet, and hail, as well as oppressive heat, which last forever because you can wash them and wear them and if they do wear out the company replaces them for free. We were even wearing the same model, white with a green underbill.

So I took a selfie. Two old guys with white facial hair. And big smiles. In a selfie. Warning. Any moment we might start telling you stories about the old days. You’ve been warned.