January 15, 1943–September 23, 2025
Calling a pastor to a Presbyterian church begins like online dating. A candidate and a congregation each upload a description of themselves into a national database, which tries to match them based on their strengths and preferences. You never know if it’s actually a good match until you meet in person.
I remember the afternoon in 2010 when my wife, Ginny, and I drove to the Appalachian Mountains for our first visit to the church. A modest brick ranch house sat on the corner before the gravel road to the sanctuary. I slowed the car and gaped at the tree in the yard — two dead deer hung upside down from ropes swung over the branches!
Ginny wondered, “Do you think those people go to the church?”
I had a feeling that they did.
I met Rodney and his wife, Shirley, shortly after we moved into the manse, and he strolled down the road to say hello. He was a bald-headed, big-bellied man who carried a walking stick and wore a radiating smile. He told me that he had two grown sons and four grandchildren and his nickname was Fat Dogg.
The next fall, Rodney hung more deer from his trees. He also put an Obama sign in his front yard, which was much more controversial in that neighborhood. Fat Dogg kept smiling.
He was retired and was generous with his time. He volunteered at the food pantry. He tutored kids in our community. He and I were part of a group that visited Mérida, Mexico. Rodney knew very little Spanish, but like the children back home, the niños y niñas loved Perro Gordo.
Eventually, Ginny and I had two sons, and our boys were always welcomed in their living room, where they played with the cars, trucks and wooden animals that once belonged to Rodney’s children.
Pastors leave for new churches, and kids grow up. Life is change, and people die. When Shirley passed last year, we drove up to see Rodney. We gathered in the same living room of their house. Grief had left my friend looking more worn out than I had ever seen him. However, he still got out the old toys. My boys were too old to play with them, but I grabbed a truck and pushed it across the coffee table toward my friend. Anything to see Fat Dogg smile again.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of the book with Wipf and Stock Publishers titled This Is the Day: A Year of Observing Unofficial Holidays about Ampersands, Bobbleheads, Buttons, Cousins, Hairball Awareness, Humbugs, Serendipity, Star Wars, Teenagers, Tenderness, Walking to School, Yo-Yos, and More. He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina where he is a student of joy.
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