As I See It…

We are, to a greater or lesser extent, a product of our contacts in life. We become the sum of the pieces. Whether that sum equals the whole, is for others to establish. But as we rub shoulders, cross paths or simply listen to those whose voice we may hear, little by little, another’s impact is registered upon the synopses of our brain.

The impression gathered may either be straight forward so that it causes us to react: either for it or against it. Or the experiences may be subtle so that we almost miss the impressing connection because it passed us as a gentle warm breeze swims by flowers in an open field. Further, we may not even be cognizant of these contacts for months, years, even decades later.

Such a thought came to my mind again today. I thought of a local dairy farmer for whom I worked the summer between my junior and senior years of college. He was a gruff old business first kind of guy. What you saw is what you got: no nonsense. However, he still possessed a twinkle-eyed view of life. I remember one occasion when he made a statement that came from so far out of left field (it appeared to me) that it didn’t even have its origin in the ball park. Without much explanation and even less provocation, he simply stated in response to the acquired knowledge that I was attending a Christian school, “No man ought to be a preacher unless he’s first delivered milk.”

If that makes much sense to you, I’m delighted. But at the time, I had a pre-med major and was preparing to take my pre-medical school examines in the Fall. Preaching was close as the poor old planet (I still believe it qualifies that position) Pluto is to the sun in my mind. Over the years I’ve recollected that one-liner from time to time. It causes me to ponder; most of the time it brings a brief and subtle smile to my mind, if not my face.

As I delivered milk that summer in the suburbs and in the heart of Philly while fending off morning rush hour traffic, I began to learn a thing or two about life, people, schedules, timing, billing, responses to criticism, complaints, spilt milk, heavy cream, heavier containers and the variety of homo sapiens that inhabited my three county territory. The customer may always be right, but that doesn’t mean the milk is always fresh. To brutally paraphrase someone else’s territory, I learned to hold my customers close and my boss closer.

As I said before, to a greater or lesser extent, the pastor that I am today has at least a tinge of a milkman breathing through his pours. Learning to cry or not to cry over spilt milk is of less importance than making sure that the delivery of the milk of the Word is always fresh.

Pastor Megilligan