Father Good
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
62 Stories For Cycle B
They called him Father Good, though he was not ordained and he had no natural children. His given name was Christopher Goodson. Everybody had called him Chris when he worked in the filling station uptown. But when he moved to the south side neighborhood, after Mildred died, the kids there started to call him Father Good. Chris said it was because he talked to them about spiritual things. But it was more than that. He was a father figure to a lot of kids who had had little attention from their own fathers, if they even knew who their fathers were.
Chris didn't much like the nickname. "I'm not so good," he used to tell the kids. "If Mildred was here she would set you straight. She knew what kind of guy I really am. And besides," he said, "the Bible says very clearly that only God is good. Jesus wouldn't even let them hang that one on him." But the nickname persisted despite, or perhaps because of, Chris' adamant protestations.
Chris loved two things in life after he lost Mildred: his flowers and all of those kids. He told me that it was on account of the kids that he moved to the south side. He said he was just driving around one day when he came upon this neighborhood with rundown houses and apartment buildings. He said there were broken bottles, pop cans, old tires, magazines and newspapers blowing in the alleys, hundreds of kids everywhere, and no sign of a tree or a flower within blocks. "That's no way for any child to grow up," Chris said. So he bought the first ramshackle house that came on the market and moved in.
The first thing Chris did was to clean up his own lawn. He hauled away all of the garbage, set out trees and put in several flower beds. He hired some of the kids to help him. When that was done they painted the house, and then he started on the rest of the block. Chris organized a neighborhood association. He got the alderman and the cops on the beat involved. Soon local business men and women were taking an interest. Storefronts were painted and parking lots resurfaced. Civic pride was catching. Suddenly there was money available from the city to fix streetlights and to repair curbs and gutters which had been crumbling for years.
The development of Reggie White Park, named after the NFL football hero who lent his support to the neighborhood association, was Chris' proudest achievement. It provided the kids with a safe place to play. Chris solicited funds throughout the city for playground equipment, basketball courts and a water fountain. He organized teams of kids to water the trees and flowers that he personally planted. It is a beautiful park, a source of pride for everyone on the south side. The last time I saw Chris, he was talking about raising money for scholarships so that some of the kids he loved would have a chance to go to college.
My job took me to another state after that. I lost track of Chris, except for an occasional Christmas card. He wasn't one to write much and neither am I. Still, I was shocked when a mutual friend called to tell me that Chris had died. I felt like I had lost one of my closest friends, even though we had not seen each other for fifteen years. It didn't seem possible that Chris was 93 years old. I learned that he had spent the last two years in a local nursing home.
I flew back for the funeral, wishing that I had had the good sense to visit while Chris was still alive. The funeral home was packed with Chris' neighbors and friends. I recognized many more people than I thought I would. But there were many well-dressed young men and women that I didn't remember, until they reminded me that we had met when I used to visit at Chris' house. They were all Chris' kids, come home to give thanks for the old man who had given them so much. They were teachers and lawyers and engineers and nurses and electricians and carpenters and independent business men and women. A few of them were raising their families in the old neighborhood and keeping it up as Chris had taught them. Many of them said they had been able to go on to school because Chris helped them to get scholarships.
When the preacher had finished with the sermon, he invited people to stand up and share their memories of Chris, and many did. One well-dressed young man, who was seated between his pretty young wife and his mother, stood up and, with tears in his eyes, said, "How I loved that old man, because he loved me and took care of me like no other man I ever knew. I don't know where I'd be today if it wasn't for Chris. God bless Father Good."
Chris didn't much like the nickname. "I'm not so good," he used to tell the kids. "If Mildred was here she would set you straight. She knew what kind of guy I really am. And besides," he said, "the Bible says very clearly that only God is good. Jesus wouldn't even let them hang that one on him." But the nickname persisted despite, or perhaps because of, Chris' adamant protestations.
Chris loved two things in life after he lost Mildred: his flowers and all of those kids. He told me that it was on account of the kids that he moved to the south side. He said he was just driving around one day when he came upon this neighborhood with rundown houses and apartment buildings. He said there were broken bottles, pop cans, old tires, magazines and newspapers blowing in the alleys, hundreds of kids everywhere, and no sign of a tree or a flower within blocks. "That's no way for any child to grow up," Chris said. So he bought the first ramshackle house that came on the market and moved in.
The first thing Chris did was to clean up his own lawn. He hauled away all of the garbage, set out trees and put in several flower beds. He hired some of the kids to help him. When that was done they painted the house, and then he started on the rest of the block. Chris organized a neighborhood association. He got the alderman and the cops on the beat involved. Soon local business men and women were taking an interest. Storefronts were painted and parking lots resurfaced. Civic pride was catching. Suddenly there was money available from the city to fix streetlights and to repair curbs and gutters which had been crumbling for years.
The development of Reggie White Park, named after the NFL football hero who lent his support to the neighborhood association, was Chris' proudest achievement. It provided the kids with a safe place to play. Chris solicited funds throughout the city for playground equipment, basketball courts and a water fountain. He organized teams of kids to water the trees and flowers that he personally planted. It is a beautiful park, a source of pride for everyone on the south side. The last time I saw Chris, he was talking about raising money for scholarships so that some of the kids he loved would have a chance to go to college.
My job took me to another state after that. I lost track of Chris, except for an occasional Christmas card. He wasn't one to write much and neither am I. Still, I was shocked when a mutual friend called to tell me that Chris had died. I felt like I had lost one of my closest friends, even though we had not seen each other for fifteen years. It didn't seem possible that Chris was 93 years old. I learned that he had spent the last two years in a local nursing home.
I flew back for the funeral, wishing that I had had the good sense to visit while Chris was still alive. The funeral home was packed with Chris' neighbors and friends. I recognized many more people than I thought I would. But there were many well-dressed young men and women that I didn't remember, until they reminded me that we had met when I used to visit at Chris' house. They were all Chris' kids, come home to give thanks for the old man who had given them so much. They were teachers and lawyers and engineers and nurses and electricians and carpenters and independent business men and women. A few of them were raising their families in the old neighborhood and keeping it up as Chris had taught them. Many of them said they had been able to go on to school because Chris helped them to get scholarships.
When the preacher had finished with the sermon, he invited people to stand up and share their memories of Chris, and many did. One well-dressed young man, who was seated between his pretty young wife and his mother, stood up and, with tears in his eyes, said, "How I loved that old man, because he loved me and took care of me like no other man I ever knew. I don't know where I'd be today if it wasn't for Chris. God bless Father Good."
