Remoy Philip

writer. creator. producer.

a diddy:

The midday sun had relented, and was passing away from the grasp of the longstanding window. Light was soon to be gone, and darkness would soon be the only thing left to see in the kitchen. The table where he sat was sheltered by a red and white checked tablecloth that had given way to the game of time and had become frayed and stained due to habitual use. Over time, indentions had found their way throughout the coverlet where coffee mugs and dinner plates had been set morning after morning day after day. Here he has sat as the seconds matriculated by him ever so softly. Time was passing, and that’s all he could hope for.

He never dreamed of the title he now garnered: pastor. He was not in search of a nature of being in the realm of the church; moreover he was just in search of truth and hope. That altruistic truth that never set in or that was never found, was replaced for a quagmire of almost-truth that was delicately and efficiently molded into being by the church.

He was young once, and all around him the world was in a mess. People were dying daily due to the cost of power that was being practiced on them from beings on higher rungs. Wars warred on daily on all levels. His friends were abusing things all around them: sex, drugs, alcohol. These were things he could not stand for. He was young and idealistic, and the world that he saw around him was definitely not him.

He had felt the warning signs early on in life. An ever so often tinge would hit his chest hard and quick. Without warning a tinge would seize his muscles and arteries, and his eyes would grow in fear. But then in pure transience, the pain would leave and he would be restored to normal. Redemption was granted once again, and the flavor of the air surrounding him was again beautiful. Rejoice!

But now at the age of 67, the pain was hitting stronger and staying longer. He need not the words of a physician or the information from some machine to tell him that his time was close. He knew. His mind was sure years back that at one point, sooner than later, he would see no more of this world, and that pain would no longer be able to be felt.

He worked hard when he was a young man. He had two jobs. During the day he worked trivially but efficiently as a restaurant manager. He organized meticulously the whereabouts of the lunch happenings of his employees along with the incoming and outgoing transactions. The dealings of money in his own personal life were never his forte but he sought out to be as responsible and dogmatic with the income of the restaurant to which he owed his income to. In the evenings and in his free time, he was a youth pastor of a church. He dealt with the responsibilities of the kids of the weekly churchgoers of his community. Games were played, services were created, and children’s lives were daily changing under his supervision. Stressful as this life sounds, he valued this time of his existence more than anything.

He married young and happy. His bride and he lived efficiently and quietly in their community. Their faces had become habitually stated in the terms of that of the titles of “Pastor” and “Pastor’s wife.” He led his family with the utmost respect and responsibility. And wherever he fell short, she would pick up the slack. They were picturesque in being. They were a happy family.

He never felt prone to sexual deviance. When he was younger, he of course dealt with, like most others, a hormonal upheaval he knew not what to do with. So with that, he was prone to exploring the realms of the carnal world, but in the end came to seek forgiveness for the wrongs of his eyes and heart. He knew that a life poured into sex and lust would be a life that would reap the horrid putrid fruit of such a disgusting life. So once the hormones depleted their power and equilibrium was reached, he never really sought after anything outside the confines of his bed with his wife. With that knowledge, she was more than privy to give up her body to her husband where they shared many a night in full consummation. He was never left hungry.

His only fracture was his desperation for knowledge. He never considered himself an academic, nor did he think of himself of the elite affluent class; just a man who sought desperately after truth. He dedicated what time he had outside the restaurant and outside the walls of the church, to understand truth and people. Truth is one thing to the world, but when adapted to the discrepancy of the hearts of humans, well truth is definitively different. He sought after literature and teachings; he met with people of all ages, races, and levels of thought. He married himself to one idea, and then without second thought cleaved away to another. He sought desperately for answers to questions of belief and life. Life to him was the ultimate question that he desperately hoped to answer.

His diligence paid him in high dividends and was able to leave his position at the restaurant to become associate pastor at his church. He was saddened on the fact that he would not be dealing with the younger hearts of the church, but was happy to be staying with a church that believed so much in him. He was now dealing with more people and more of their problems. He was given more, and he was happy to deal with more. The people brought to him there needs, their wants, their joys, their failures, and their desires. He knew he was not to meet their needs, but maybe, to plant something inside them that they could maybe one day grow into the answer; if not the answer, then maybe something of a medicinal value that could alleviate the pain.

His office rests a few doors down from the kitchen where he now sits. Small and tedious it is. Books line shelves and chairs and his desk. Thoreau, Chesterton, Lewis, Augustine, Wright, and authors of all codes of living were strewn about. He had read some of their titles once, and other titles he had read on numerous occasion. He enjoyed reading; moreover, he enjoyed gleaning that revelation of information, that commingling of words that would jump out of the page and grant the reader—himself—informational beauty of the workings of this world. He spent hours bustling through Camus and wrestling through Quinn and hoping with Boethius. How joyous he found the splendor of a good book.

His wife was never who could come to grips with his hunt for an adequate answer. She at first found his quasi-despair unique and tantalizing. But as the years waned away, her eyes grew accustomed and at times, annoyed with his inability to just sit still in the present. Her frustration, as little as there was, as only divvied up against him in moments when his mind was away battling thought after thought, and not spent in pure admiration of there love. When at dinner or at bed when their love should have been the only ruling thought, he would displace it with a question of existence, and she would come after to win back his mind.

He loved her for that. There were many reasons he loved her, but that one reason that trumped the rest, was her ability to take hold of him. She had no fear when it came to getting what she wanted from him. Not in the monetary or physical sense; but when she really wanted something from him, moreover, needed something from, she would fight for it. Her words whether piercing or not, were used deliberately to get back what was hers. He enjoyed those times, when in futility they argued for something as ephemeral as time, and she would prove time to him, that it was all she wanted. She was after not his body nor his money nor his status, she was after his time. Once she was gone, and his time with her was no more, he understood the value of what he had had.

He was wary of the world that Christian realm had propagated around him. He knew of the dealings of the church and how that was presented to the Church. Like most things, Christianity proposed a two-faced dilemma. There was one face that graciously presented itself to the world, and then there was the other face that portrayed the disgusting brokenness of the world. He knew of both Billy Graham and of Jim Baker. He knew what good and what evil the title of pastor carried with it. He had no problem wearing the prefix, for he knew, he was not seeking after anything outside the realms of truth. He was a master of control, and in control he was of his life.

As time moved on so quickly, people come and go, and steady steps were climbed to where he became the senior pastor of the church. There were a few of the congregants of this community who were against their new leader, but the aggregate majority was in full favor. He was sure his time was coming, but he still accepted his new role in full humility. He never dreamed of it happening, nor was it a goal of his to have this be his responsibility; however, this was a generous gift that life had bestowed upon his simple life that he wished to steward. He now had fewer responsibilities, but the responsibilities he did hold carried a lot more weight and a lot more power.

Along the way, along his road, he and his wife, the pastor and pastor’s wife had created a family. Two little men were following in their father’s footsteps along with one young lady all the men adored. She was the prize, and they were boxers fighting for her amorous infantile love. He and his wife being totally naïve in the first child, proved as worthy veterans when it came to the third child. Cuts, bumps, and bruises were there displayed all throughout the growing and building up of the family. As painful as growing up is, so much more painful is child rearing. Both, he and her had many a times wondered if they were doing the right thing or the wrong thing in the ways they went about in growing their family. But in the end, the mistakes they made and the family they made was all their own; personally, he was proud. He would always be proud.