Pastors’ friendship blossoms in assisted living
By the Rev. Darlene L. Kelley
SUMMERVILLE—The Rev. English Pearcy walks down the long hallway to the other side of the home, hooks his cane on the back of a chair and warmly greets his new friend.
At 89, he is the younger of the two, and he jokes about his friend’s outdated hat. “90 Never Looked so Good,” the hat proclaims, but the Rev. John Pearson is 91 now, and both men reflect on the birthday that passed just weeks ago.
Pearson has been at The Claiborne, an assisted living facility, for several years, but Pearcy is a recent resident, learning the routine and adjusting to the changes.
Finding a colleague at his new location has made a big change less challenging, and he makes the walk down the hallway and over to his friend’s side of the building as often as he can for breakfast. In a short period of time, both men have grown to depend on one another, and both express gratitude for the other’s presence.
“Connection. That’s a Methodist word,” Pearcy states over a glass of sweet tea.
It’s lunchtime when I sit to talk to the two retired United Methodist ministers. Their careers may be over, but their memories are lasting, and they take turns reminiscing about serving the church in South Carolina.
“There aren’t a lot of people I can really talk to here,” Pearson offers, “and my friend and I have a lot in common. We can talk to each other, and it’s good.”
Pearcy smiles in response. “It’s important to keep engaged,” he confirms his friend’s remark, pointing to his temple. “We can talk to each other and keep one another engaged.”
He waves in acknowledgement to a woman heading our way. Deftly handling her lovely purple cane full of painted white lilies, the woman leads a small group of female residents who slow down, one by one, as they pass our table to nod their greetings and give their regards.
According to the Assisted Living Federation of America, women outnumber men seven to one in elder care homes, and the average resident is an 87-year-old female, so having another man to talk to presents a greater challenge than one might expect.
“I walk over for breakfast as often as I can, practically every day.” Pearcy smiles again, explaining, “The trip is easier for me.”
But no explanation is necessary; Pearson sits in a wheelchair.
Soon the men are concentrating on the years, the pictures, dates and shadows that constitute recall and rapid reflection, and they are both remarkably cognitive and keen. They share a bit about themselves, their families and their call, when and where they went to school and the churches they served.
Though I am nearing retirement age myself, I am awed by the two servant leaders sitting beside me, both of whom started serving God years before I reached kindergarten.
“I was the first Black district superintendent in Greenville,” Pearson eventually offers. “There were about 16 Black churches and about 85 White churches, and all the Black churches accepted my authority 100 percent. And about eighty-five percent of the other 85 did too.”
Pearson chuckles at the end of his declaration, but Pearcy and I both give pause.
“We’ve seen so many changes,” Pearcy sighs. “Sea-swelling changes. I remember when there were just a handful of women. Just a few. Now there are so many wonderful women pastors. We’ve seen a lot of changes. And it’s been mostly good.”
“There are still one or two colored Methodist churches around,” Pearson adds. “And we’ve always had the AME. But I remember the days when the schools were totally segregated. My mother taught the Black children from 6 years old to the 11th grade, even though she was only self-taught herself.”
He smiles at the memory of his mother.
“They used to tell us to be careful with our textbooks,” Pearcy shares with sadness in his voice. “When we were finished with them, we gave them to the Black school. And I remember when there were always two churches per town, one Black and one White.”
Pearcy recalls, “My own father was a segregationist. He gave the Klan permission to have a rally on a piece of land that really belonged to me. I had to call the sheriff, but the problem was—the sheriff knew and didn’t care. I was only about 30 and terrified. They had a big cross with burlap around the bottom and bunting around a platform where the speakers were going to speak. I was terrified, but the sheriff had to tell them to move that cross. The property was mine, and I wasn’t going to have a Klan rally on my land.”
Pearson chuckles faintly at his friend’s remarks, but I am certain his reaction conveys more support than humor.
“I got lost once, early on at one of the first churches I served, somewhere down around Moncks Corner,” Pearson recalls. “Turned a corner and ran right into a Klan parade. Never been so surprised. Never seen anybody pray harder or turn the wheel faster. Help me, Jesus!”
We are all chuckling now, and I am glad for a bit of comic relief.
“I was a military chaplain in the Army for 20 years before I took my first church, served in Vietnam,” Pearson explains “Vietnam will teach you that there’s no such thing as a little prayer. There may be a short prayer, but there’s no such thing as a little prayer.”
Pearson’s remark is a great segue to our own prayer. Our lunch has arrived, and the three of us bow our heads over our plates as Pearcy gives God thanks.
As it will with pastors, the conversation soon turns to the state of the church.
“I have great hope for The United Methodist Church.” Pearcy lights up with a smile as he lays his fork down to give his thoughts full attention. “Everybody deserves a loving God, and finally, we can give them one. No more turning inside and out, cherry-picking Scripture for judgment and division. Now we have community and diversity. Now we can pastor all the people.”
“There’s no substitute for love.” Pearson nods in affirmation. “No substitute for loving your people even when they’re not lovable.”
Pearson laughs and Pearcy joins him.
“Love your people and preach the Bible.” Pearcy smiles broadly.
And dessert arrives.
Kelley pastors Trinity UMC, West Columbia. She is a member of the Advocate Board.