On a humid morning in a congested South Florida neighborhood, John W. Parrish went to his church to drop off some paperwork. When he got there he found the church secretary had been startled by a suspicious person who tried to follow her into the building. The elderly woman had not been harmed but was nevertheless quite shaken.
The next morning, John, a WWII vet
who was nearing eighty himself, again drove to the church in his red car decorated
with “In God We Trust” bumper-stickers and flags, and stood by while the
secretary opened the office. He told her he was just in the neighborhood and
quietly added this trip to his daily routine so she would feel safe. John made
this his habit for several years until shortly before his death.
I learned this story from the
priest who presided at his memorial service. John W. Parrish was my father. Although I had not
heard this particular story before, it came as no surprise to me, my brother,
nor anyone in the standing-room-only crowd gathered that evening. A widower since
shortly before he retired, John spent his so-called leisure years giving to others.
There was more. When the service
ended our family stood at the front of the room as neighbors, nuns, a bartender, a postman,
former co-workers and employers, VFW and Knights of Columbus buddies, friends new
and old filed by, each with their own stories to tell. A woman who lost her father
the same month told me she often talked to John instead of her own dad because
she knew he would offer good advice and a kind word. A young man whom Dad had
scolded throughout his teen years for parking on the grass and breaking other
minor home association rules had tears in his eyes as he told us how much John
meant to him.
If good deeds are ripples in a pond
that spread to unseen shores then John created quite a wave. May his memory
continue to inspire good deeds.
