When I pulled into the driveway my heart was skipping every other beat and my nerves were completely getting the best of me. I was rehearsing my introduction.

“Hello, my name is Reba Procell.” That seemed a little too formal. “Hey, I’m Reba.” That sounded a little too down-home. Why was I so nervous? He was just a preacher and from all accounts, a kind preacher. And I lived with a preacher! My own daddy is a preacher. Why was I making such a big deal about this?

While I was wrapping up my rehearsal and gaining my composure, I was startled by a loud tap on my window. Jumping out of my skin and rolling down my window at the same time, I was met with a wide gracious smile, and a deep voice that sounded like James Earl Jones saying, “Hi Reba, I’m Calvin, Benjie’s daddy, do you mind running to the E-Z Mart and grabbing me a beer before you come in?”

Of all the greetings that were on my long list of potentials from my overthinking eighteen-year-old mind, this was not one of them.

I cautiously paused and waited for a chuckle. A sly smile. An admission that he was joking. Something other than the solemn face that was staring straight into my eyes. Quickly deciding I would play along I sheepishly asked if had a bad day and what kind of beer is he requesting. I was not one to judge. If the kind preacher needs a beer, there must be a good reason.

He went on to tell me that he was having a wonderful day but needed a large canned beer in a brown paper bag. His son, Benjie, just stood there as if this was a normal thing. Not wanting to belabor the request, I put my white 1992 Ford Probe into reverse and headed one block over to the local E-Z Mart in Winnfield, Louisiana.

The whole way there I kept thinking this was a joke. Was I contributing to the delinquency of a preacher? I knew Baptist preachers were not supposed to consume alcohol but I really should not question a man of the cloth. Maybe he just had one on the weekends and liked the taste.

Once the brew was secured and neatly tucked into a brown paper bag, I headed back the preacher’s house just as instructed. When I pulled into the driveway, there stood the preacher waiting on his beer with an even bigger grin. As soon as I exited my car the loud, deep voice said, “Oh thank you so much, I have been trying to kill these snails in my flower bed and someone told a beer should do the trick, then I can put the dead snails in that brown paper bag!”

At this point I did not have the heart to let him know I was questioning his beer decision the whole way to the gas station and back to his house.

This was the beginning of a thirty-one-year friendship with many hills and a few valleys. The valleys came along when my parenting skills were put on trial. Papaw Phelps took great pride in allowing his grandchildren to consume seconds and thirds of ice-cream, staying up past a curfew, and even riding in an old mail jeep with no brakes and no seat belts. He took extra measures in the memory making department. If it made the children smile, he was more than happy to indulge them.

This past week my daughters said goodbye to the paternal grandfather. It was one of the hardest things they have had to endure during their lives but they both handled it with so much strength and confidence in their faith…knowing that he is celebrating in heaven on the streets of gold. They know they will see him again. I am so grateful and blessed to have had thirty-one years with the preacher who one time needed a beer.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” – Mathew 5:4