Parish

By Matt Brown

There are unexpected, beatific moments when Rev. Elijah Lovejoy Parish is swept up by the divine intrusion into the ordinary. Yet, he knows he cannot tarry there, for his calling also compels him to resume his shift as the traffic cop down at the intersection of Pathological and Whine.

Told from the perspective of a deceased brother, freed from life's bondage to autism, Parish introduces you to the family of a young pastor and invites you to laugh and cry through the seasons of a year laced with everything from a redneck funeral that becomes a DEA sting operation to a grandfather's honorable relinquishing of his mind to senescence to an act of violence that impales the community and challenges easy Easter answers.

Dismayed by rock-star-skinny-jeaned preachers preening and self-righteous demagogues decreeing, Elijah Parish balks when strangers ask him what he does for a living. Yet, he keeps at it. Why? Grace: undeserved and unsurpassed, ineffable and irrepressible. Living with the sinners and saints of St. Martin Presbyterian Church in the North Carolina foothills community of Edinburgh, Elijah and his family keep stumbling into grace as the seasons pass and as chaos dances with mercy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Nov 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781498204866

Matt Brown

Matt Brown is an evangelist, author, and founder of Think Eternity, a ministry dedicated to amplifying the gospel every day to millions through devotionals, videos, live events, and more. Matt and his wife Michelle and their two sons live in Minnesota. You can follow Matt on social media at @evangelistmatt and at thinke.org.

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Parish

Matt Brown

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Parish

Copyright © 2014 Matt Brown. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions. Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

Wipf and Stock

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

Eugene, OR 97401

www.wipfandstock.com

ISBN 13: 978-1-4982-0485-9

EISBN 13: 978-1-4982-0486-6

Manufactured in the U.S.A. 09/26/2014

Quotations of Scripture - New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

With gratitude to God for the grace I have known through

Donna, Noah, and Seth

Perfect love casts out fear

—

1

John

4

:

18

Acknowledgments

Incomprehensively more than my deserving, I have been the recipient of graces mediated through family, friends, and congregations. Without a doubt the best sentence I ever managed to speak, or at least nervously mumble, was in the form of a question to my best friend—Will you marry me? That Donna took leave of her senses long enough to say yes is testament to God’s inscrutable ways. It has been a grand journey these twenty-five years and the joy of watching our sons, Noah and Seth, grow toward maturity has been a treasure without measure. The promise of holding your hand into the future buoys my days and headlines my prayers of gratitude.

I am thankful for the parents who brought me here and for the sons who will someday carry me toward home. For nearly fifteen years, I have been supported and enriched by the fellowship of a group of pastors made up of Jody Welker, Richard Boyce, John Debevoise, and Bob Bardin. To me, they reflect not only the epitome of servant leadership, but also the grace, humility, and character of Christ. I learn from these friends each time I am blessed to be in their presence.

I am abundantly grateful for the congregation of South Mecklenburg Presbyterian Church in Charlotte, NC. I continue to be humbled by their loving support and the opportunity to partner in ministry with them. In particular, I want to thank Nancy Metzler and Terry Gaines for their eyes and insights in reading the manuscript. I also am grateful to the people of Resource Publications and Wipf and Stock for their willingness to take a chance on an unpublished novelist.

Soli Deo Gloria.

1

The Tree

In the moment before he was hanged at Flossenburg for his involvement in a plot against Hitler, Dietrich Bonhoeffer uttered these last words: This is the end—for me the beginning of life. Wish I’d have said that. However, I have to admit that as the car careened down the embankment, the only words that escaped my lips in those last seconds of life were, Oh shit!! An indelicate closing statement to a life, but miraculous in its own way because I had not spoken a meaningful, cognizant thought in its correct context in so long.

Metal collapsing. Flesh tearing. Shatterproof glass shattering. Body flying. Black.

Tragic? Yes, particularly for my older brother who was driving when the teen queen heading toward us managed to slide the cassette into the player but failed to notice she was drifting to the wrong side, which also happened to be our side, of the road. Instinctively, my brother jerked the steering wheel, only there was no shoulder and the embankment was steep. My brother somehow survived with only bruises, but would live with the irrational guilt of feeling he had failed to protect me. How ironic, because my brother always protected me. He was fettered. I was free. My name is Zachary Parish.

This is the end—for me the beginning of life. Bonhoeffer said it before he was killed. I would know it after I was killed. You see, I’m a Presbyterian, part of that tortured, contentious, theologically misunderstood, feud-too-much-about-sex, mainline Protestant denomination with the gloomy statistical reports. My brother, who would become a Presbyterian pastor, had a friend who suggested that the Presbyterian Church create an ad campaign with the tag line, Come worship with us. You can have the whole pew to yourself! Well, Presbyterians are heirs of the confessional heritage of the Protestant Reformation, and so it is common for us to stand in worship to recite an ancient document called the Apostles’ Creed. Considering the head-whipping speed of change in this world, it is mind-blowing to consider that every Sunday without fail, Christians in the far flung corners of this earth have stood to recite this creed for nearly 1800 years. 1800 years! And within that creed you can find this assertion: I believe in . . . the communion of saints.

The communion of saints. This phrase, that is regularly uttered by rote and without much thought, is a profound affirmation of the idea that we stand on the shoulders of the faithful who have come before us. Their witness informs us and their spirit encourages us in ways beyond our understanding.

Following the wreck, I became a part of that fellowship of saints. I have joined that church triumphant, what some folks call heaven, what others call the Sweet Bye and Bye or the Great Reward or the Kingdom of God. No, I’m not sitting alone on a cloud, flapping my wings, and wishing they had buried me with my Xbox. Rather, it is a mystery I can’t quite explain, but I’ve finally come to comprehend those crazy words the congregation used to regularly sing—Ineffably sublime. Yes, it is.

On the cross, Jesus turned to the penitent felon who would score no stay of execution, and he said, Today, you will be with me in paradise. I was never the theologian of the clan. That was and is my brother, but I do know this. It is waaay cool here!

Bonhoeffer was right. This is the end—for me the beginning of life. You see, my days on earth were constrained by fence posts unlike the usual life inhibitors. I seldom ran a fever and had an impressive record of years without vomiting. I could read the smallest print and see the hyperactive squirrel dancing on the telephone line some eighty yards up the road. I had ten fingers and ten toes, the answer to every expectant parent’s prayer. But somewhere in the mixture of flesh, muscle, and bone there was an issue with the wiring.

I could tell you the complete results of every PGA tournament from 1990 when our father joined the Charlotte Country Club and began the twice weekly ritual of taking my little seven year old legs out to the golf course, allowing me to walk along as he taught himself the physics and skills of the game, until April 3, 1997, the day of the accident, ten days before Tiger Woods would win his first Green Jacket at the Masters. I could recite every detail from seven years of tournaments. My dad would clip the results from the sports page each Monday morning for me, and by the time my Lucky Charms were swallowed, I had them memorized. On April 3, 1990, Paul Azinger tied for fourth at the Greater Greensboro Open earning $51,666 in spite of two rounds of 73. I went through a score of spiral notebooks writing all the results, statistics, averages, and earnings of each tournament from memory. I even had a section recording the Stimpmeter averages of every course played during a calendar year.

And yet, if asked, I could not tell you whether I was happy or sad. I could not define, offer, or receive forgiveness. I could not grasp the value of a hug or the purpose of a handshake. I was not equipped for conversation, compassion, empathy, or responsibility. The test results offered up words like autism and savant, which meant nothing to me. My mother cried. My father lost his smile for weeks. My brother promised he would protect me. My sister made me a get-well card with construction paper and crayons. I was clueless about the meaning of those words and could not capture the emotions swirling around our house. I could see but not perceive. I could witness but not interpret. I could remember all the details but not understand their meaning.

To live without the capacity for wonder is like a kid going to Disney World and being told he’s too short to ride Space Mountain. Not cool. The closest I ever came to a sense of peace was walking with my father on the golf course in the hours before dusk when the fairways were empty and it was just me, my dad, the cardinals and crickets, lob wedges, and Titleists. I now know how important those moments were to my dad, an erudite attorney with a big heart, a small ego, and a Costco-sized reservoir of common sense. That place, that routine, and though I would never swing a club, that game, formed the closest thing to a relationship that I would know. I was obsessed with routine and on a summer Monday or Thursday evening, if dad hadn’t appeared in the driveway before 5:30 pm, I would become exceedingly anxious, pacing the floor, reciting the champions of over a hundred years worth of majors, and starting again if he had not yet arrived. Willie Park, Old Tom Morris, Andrew Strath, Young Tom Morris, Tom Kidd, Mungo Park . . .

This is the end—for me, the beginning of life. As paradoxical as it may seem, death is the final form of healing. The Psalmist sings, Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. Affirming this promise, Revelation’s author speaks of that place where God will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away.

While my death has weighed heavily on my brother, I am freed from the tangled wiring that so restrained my ability to experience the joy, sadness, hope, and terror that mark life in God’s good, but also broken, creation.

And so it is that I’ve been given a front row seat on the balcony of my brother’s life, which could be called a sitcom with substance. I watch with bemused hope, untroubled by the wounds and traumas that may befall him, because I know the story ends well.

Elijah Lovejoy Parish is my brother’s name, the name on which our mother insisted at the time of his birth. It is a curiosity to most and only a few historians along with a select number of Presbyterians have a clue about its origin. Elijah Parish Lovejoy was a 19th century journalist, Presbyterian minister and abolitionist who was a terrible insurance risk when it came to printing presses. Seldom has a piece of ink-filled machinery been the object of such wrath.

Born in Maine in 1802 and educated at Colby College and Princeton Theological Seminary, Lovejoy settled in St. Louis, Missouri, started a Presbyterian church, and worked as the editor of the St. Louis Observer where he encountered growing hostility for his anti-slavery themed editorials. Pro-slavery activists destroyed his printing press three times, persuading Lovejoy to relocate across the river in Alton, Illinois. A fresh start? Not really. When Lovejoy attempted to defend his fourth printing press in the face of a pro-slavery mob, he was shot and killed, earning him the epitaph of martyr.

Well, our mom earned her history degree from the University of North Carolina in 1970. She marched with Martin Luther King, Jr. in 1967 after writing a term paper on the brief but courageous civil rights crusade of Elijah Parish Lovejoy. In 1968 she burned the bra that had never been necessary anyway, and 1969 took her to Woodstock where she took a hit from a joint, drank her first beer, ate a loaded brownie, and proceeded to throw up all night. Dehydrated, she passed out and was transported to the hospital by none other than Joan Baez who was on her way out of the festival. The last song of the iconic folksinger’s set was We Shall Overcome, but mom wasn’t so sure because her father, a Presbyterian minister of the South, would be the one driving all day and night to pick her up.

She knew he’d be plenty pissed, but it wasn’t like he was the stern Calvinist clergyman seeking to repress everything but his own self-righteousness. Kindness seemed to be his strongest conviction. This would mark only the second time she heard his voice rise to a level that betrayed anger. And it wasn’t even that loud. It’s just that her hungover head was still pounding and every word ricocheted around her skull like a pinball. Disappointment. Bing!! Responsibility. Bing!! Scared your mother to death. Bing!! Bing!! Bing!! Bing!! And then there was some proverb. What was it? It is like sport to a fool to do wrong, but wise conduct is pleasure to a man of understanding. To be honest, though, my grandfather always envied her spunk and passion. As far back as her memory would allow, her father never failed to greet her with the words, How’s my little Turbo Tess?

The Right Reverend Jordan McPheeters, my grandfather, was a good man serving the church in the tempest of the 60’s. He had journeyed the route of so many Presbyterian pastors in the South, matriculating at Davidson College and then Union Theological Seminary in Virginia where he met my grandmother, Miss Adele Thompson who was a student across the street at the Presbyterian School of Christian Education.

Following Jordan’s middler year of seminary, Jordan and Adele were married in Union’s chapel, after which they celebrated a two-day honeymoon in Virginia Beach, before driving to Mocksville, NC for an internship. Jordan would preach while the pastor of First Presbyterian Church was away on vacation and study leave, and Adele would organize and lead Vacation Bible School.

They survived that hot summer, sweltering in an unairconditioned one-room apartment wedged into the attic space of a grand Georgian manor that maintained a certain regal presence in the town in spite of increasing signs of entropy. Here and there, the slats of the shutters were drooping and chipping; and the bougainvillea had swallowed the left side of the porch. The gutter above the kitchen was sagging and the whole place could have used a power washing. Jordan said the house reminded him of his great uncle Nate who always seemed to have some remnant of his last meal forming an ink-blot stain on his white cotton oxford just below his neck as if he was offering a daily Rorshach test to his regular visitors. The elbows of his Brooks Brothers blazer were worn and frayed. He needed a shave, a haircut, and a comb. Yet, he still managed to give off a vibe of refined elegance.

Lord only knows how much money it would take to restore the estate to its former glory, but Jordan and Adele were grateful to have a rent-free roof over their heads, even if it did leak in a couple of spots. As the sweat rolled down their backs and their breathing grew labored during the nightly climb up three flights of stairs, Jordan would smile at Adele and try to put a positive spin on the long hot summer in Mocksville. At least it’s not Bolton, the grim little hamlet you had to drive through to get to Wrightsville Beach that never got the news the Depression was over. The speed limit there on Highway 74 slowed you down to 25 mph so that you wouldn’t miss any of the decay. Bolton was like a drive-thru Smithsonian exhibit on Southern poverty.

Mocksville wasn’t Paris, or even Greensboro for that matter, but it was an amiable small county seat kind of a town that offered a Rockwellian way of life. For Jordan and Adele, the primary problem was not the town, the summer heat, or even the amount of time spent climbing steps. Rather, what made the summer seem so long, what led these newlyweds to always refer to that summer as The Mocksville Marathon, was the placement of their apartment. Oh, they could handle the stairs and the mildew and the tiny bathroom, but what was continually infuriating was the fact that the antique wrought-iron bed frame sat on a creaky wood plank floor directly over the widow Forney’s bedroom. The wealthy widow, a paragon of probity, was legally blind but had the hearing of an owl. In addition, she was a perpetual homebody and had a habit of staying up late into the night, reading large print editions of Jane Austen novels with the help of an architect’s lamp and a magnifying glass. Soooo . . . twenty-four years of pent up sexual energy would have to be restrained like the waters behind the lake forming dams of the Catawba during that long hot summer. Poor Jordan. Even though activity down in the missile silo was regularly at DEFCON 2, there would be scant opportunity for any rocket’s red glare.

One desperate night the newlyweds tried to pretend they were Russian spies under surveillance in a bugged room where anything but silence would risk capture and execution, but even after Adele sprayed 3-in-One on the bed springs, they quickly found stealth sex to be an oxymoron. A quick effort at afternoon delight wasn’t in the cards, either, because whenever Adele wasn’t meeting with the young mothers planning for VBS, Jordan was busy visiting the hospital or leading a Bible study for one of the women’s circles. You can bet he stayed as far away from the Song of Solomon as possible.

However, the intimacy interruptus did permit the newlyweds to pinpoint the night my mother Tess was conceived. The widow Forney was spending the night at her sister’s in Winston-Salem in order to arrive early for her bunionectomy the next morning. It just happened to be July 4th, and growing up, Tess could never figure out why her parents would always be giggling in the middle of the annual fireworks display at the fairgrounds.

Tess McPheeters would grow up knowing only Mocksville as home. When her father completed seminary, Jordan and Adele managed to pack all their worldly goods into the Nash Rambler, even leaving a corner in the back seat for Adele and toddler Tess. That the car was packed tight was probably a good thing; less room for the little duchess of disaster to maneuver.

Ironically, the Rambler died on arrival in Mocksville, where Jordan and Adele would spend the rest of their days, having been called to serve First Presbyterian upon the dismissal of Rev. Turner. Turns out that during the sabbatical for which Jordan had served as a temporary substitute, Rev. Turner had found enlightenment, not in the hallowed Presbyterian environs of Montreat’s Anderson Auditorium where Harry Emerson Fosdick was preaching, but in the wanton arms of Bernice Crabtree, a married mother of three who was serving as a Christian educator in Swannanoa. A thicket off Lookout Trail brought forth rapturous, yet contextually and theologically errant shouts to the Lord. But that kind of enlightenment has a price. The subsequent outbreak of poison ivy on the good reverend’s hooha was a treat compared to the trouble he would find back in Mocksville the following year when rumors of the affair went viral.

Wise old pastors will witness to the grace of beginning a pastorate after a disaster, as long as the disaster was precipitated by the previous preacher. Even your mistakes will be viewed as endearing in comparison to the bitterness reserved for your predecessor. However, if the disaster was the result of congregational dysfunction, an asbestos pulpit robe will not protect you from the fire and heartburn of conflict. There are a lot of insurance agents and history teachers who were once idealistic young pastors until they innocently walked into the mouths of fire-breathing dragons disguised as charming churches. My grandfather would one day pull my brother Elijah aside on the night of his ordination to say, Son, be careful out there. Just because the stained glass is lovely on the outside doesn’t mean the people are friendly on the inside. I believe it was Mark Twain who said, The church is always trying to get other people to reform; it might not be a bad idea to reform itself a little, by way of example.¹ (A Tramp Abroad)

On the other hand, if church struggles were the result of the previous preacher’s negligence, misbehavior, or incompetence, the way may be clear for a sweet ride for the new parson in town. That was certainly the case for Jordan and Adele in Mocksville. Having served an internship there, they were beloved before they even began; and in the light of Reverend Turner’s salacious summer sabbatical, the McPheeters were received as a healing balm for wounded souls. When one church member tried to sound merciful, saying, Rev. Turner just didn’t have a stiff enough backbone to withstand temptation, she was interrupted by the widow Forney, "It wasn’t a stiff backbone that got him into trouble!" Jordan laughed heartily until it crossed his mind that the mischievous sparkle in the widow’s eyes might have something to do with what she overheard above her as she read Sense and Sensibility late into the nights of the previous summer. The more Jordan’s face flushed with embarrassment, the more she grinned. Maybe widow Forney wasn’t such a paragon of probity after all.

Relieved that the Turner affair was behind them, the congregation of First Presbyterian opened their arms to the McPheeters and would not let them go. They would serve that church and community for forty-two years. As a toddler, Tess would escape from the playpens in the nursery, twice making it down the aisle of the sanctuary in the middle of worship before the nursery volunteers would catch up to her. Once, the Lord’s Prayer would be interrupted as Tess ran down the aisle, pointing to the pulpit, and squealing with delight, That’s my daddy praying!

Tess would familiarize herself with every corner, crevasse, cobweb, closet, and classroom of that church property by the time she left for college in Chapel Hill. She went to preschool there; she broke her arm falling off the monkey bars in the playground there; she sang in the children’s choir there; she learned her first cussword (and my last word—shit) from Annabelle Strom there; she memorized the kings of Israel there; she fell off the pew while sleeping during worship there; she was confirmed and received her first communion there; she got in trouble for calling the youth Sunday school teacher an imbecile there; she felt the depth of Christ’s love during a Good Friday Tenebrae service there; she made out with Billy Ray Barkley in the cemetery there; she became passionate about ministry to the poor and justice for the disenfranchised there; she cheered out loud when the first woman was ordained as an elder there; she again walked down the aisle of the sanctuary there, this time wearing a wedding dress; with my father, she would present Elijah, me, and my younger sister Dina for baptism there; she will one day attend both of her parents’ funerals there; and she would weep at my burial in the cemetery there. Tess was so woven into the fabric of that church that you could not discern where it ended and she began.

I don’t know if Hillary Clinton actually coined the phrase It Takes a Village, but our family would counter that it takes a congregation to raise a child. When an infant is baptized in the Presbyterian Church, it is an act of the whole church community. The parents covenant with the congregation to nurture a child in an environment where she will know she has been claimed by God, redeemed by Christ, and loved by God’s people. It is not an exaggeration to say that those Mocksville Presbyterians believed that Tess was no less their daughter than she was Jordan and Adele’s daughter. When Tess entered the fellowship hall as a child, inevitably someone would pick her up and swing her around as she squealed with delight. When my grandfather was hospitalized following a heart attack, she stayed with one church member and rode to school with another church member. Tess gained five pounds in the weeks following Jordan’s release from the hospital because the refrigerator, freezer, and countertops were overflowing with chafing dishes holding baked spaghetti, chicken pot pie, broccoli cheese casserole, lemon bundt cake, double fudge brownies, and chess pie; not to mention plates of home-baked cookies, ham biscuits, sourdough bread, and gallons of tea so sweet it made your teeth hurt.

On the Sunday before her graduation from high school when Tess offered the traditional senior sermon, even that old curmudgeonly, leather handed, John Deere drivin’ soybean farmer, Cyrus Jacobs, was seen dabbing his eyes with a well worn red bandana that he always kept tucked in his back pocket. It takes a tough man to be a farmer with hay fever, and so while it was common to see Cyrus blowing his colossal hawk-billed nose into that tattered rag, this was the first time anyone had seen him pull it out for purposes of emotion. But this was his little girl just like it was Judge Martin’s little girl, Dr. Lizzie’s little girl, and Sunday school superintendent Mr. Mike’s little girl. That church was Tess’ home. That congregation was her family. So, when it came time to stuff that VW Microbus with clothes, blankets, pillows, and a typewriter and travel to Chapel Hill for college, it was a traumatic experience for the whole church community.

Tess was what you would call a piece of work. She was equal parts covered dish luncheon on the church grounds and Jack Kerouac reading, rebel always with a cause. I remember my brother often saying that there was never a cause that mom didn’t like. So, when Tess McPheeters collided with UNC Chapel Hill, a dynamic, barrier crushing, protest instigating, cause championing relationship was formed that would influence communities and generations to come. Little Turbo Tess was to become a force to be reckoned with. Many a man of the old Southern establishment would be both charmed by her petite beauty and mowed down by her indomitable crusading spirit. Years later, a city councilman would be heard advising a newly elected colleague entering the council chambers, Remember three things: Always count to ten before responding to any question; always remember that everything that goes on in there is filmed; and for God’s sake, don’t ever mess with Tess. She’ll slaughter you.

Though she would hold no political office, in the circles of local government, my mom’s ability to emasculate those who dared to tolerate injustice was so feared, that she was known by a singular name like the superstars of European soccer—Messi, Ronaldo, Chicharito . . . Tess. While some would utter the name with the taste of vinegar on their lips, most came to speak the name with great respect for her indefatigable compassion. The embittered voices were the grudge-holding, defeated opponents who had been twisted into pretzels by Tess’ intellect and tenacity. She was never one to raise her voice. She was ever effervescent and abundantly kind.

Tess could not have accomplished so much if arrogance was a necessary trait. In a Southern city like Charlotte there would be many who would disagree with her politics but no one would question the authenticity of her humility. Yet, she killed many an ego with her kindness. Drawn in by her charm, Tess’ opponents would find their views shredded like Lexington barbeque by her cleaver sharp questions. At a public forum on school integration in the mid-seventies, Tess carved up a Charlotte-Mecklenburg School Board member so deftly that by the end you could almost catch the scent of hickory smoke in the air.

Mr. Catherton, could you . . .

Aw Tess, you can call me Prescott.

That’s nice of you, Mr. Catherton. My husband and I certainly enjoyed the Heart for Charlotte Gala hosted by you and Tipper last week. It was a sumptuous affair. It was good to see Miss Effie.

Yes, she was glad to see you, too.

How many years has Miss Effie been in your employ?

Twenty-two years. She started doing some cleaning and cooking for us when she was nigh but eighteen years old. When our children were born she came on full-time. Why, she practically raised our kids. Effie’s like a member of the family. Why, she is family.

Yes, I’m sure the children love her dearly. Miss Effie has children of her own, doesn’t she?

As a matter of fact, her three children are the same ages as ours. Very polite. Very respectful.

Yes, I know them well. Could you remind me how long you have served on the school board?

Well you know that. It’ll be nine years next week. I was just reelected last year.

Yes, I guess that’s right. Now, where is it your children are enrolled in school?

Charlotte Day School.

Three children. That must be expensive.

Well, only the best for your children.

Where is it that they used to go to school?

Alexander Graham Junior High School.

Isn’t that where Miss Effie’s children attend?

Well . . . uh . . . yes.

Mr. Catherton, if Miss Effie is family, I take it that her children are family, too.

Uh . . . well, I guess.

"So, why would you find it so objectionable for your children to be in the same classroom with members of your own