MEMORIES OF GROVER
My mind began to wander as the communion prayer droned into its final segment, reminding God of what he had obviously forgotten. All the way back to Grover and me, years ago in another place. Grover showed up for every carry- in meal, stuffing his pockets with rolls and fried chicken before departing just in time to miss the speaker. I stopped by to see him one morning, “You’re the first preacher,” he said, “that ever stopped by.” A one-room apartment with a huge potato simmering on the gas range. A cot, two chairs, a violin, and some books on archeology checked out from the public library. Grover, I should add, had spent years in various institutions, released only in his latter years, and well into his seventies. “I play the violin,” he volunteered with a grin. “Like to hear a number?” I nodded. I laboriously worked his way through three verses of “Amazing Grace.” Placing the violin back into the…
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