Jesus, Plumber of our Souls
I live in a wonderful historic neighborhood inFort Worth, Fairmount, and one of its distinctions was that it had its own plumber, Gene Forman. Gene was a large, affable man in his early sixties who had created a niche for himself in our neighborhood. And we kept him and his erstwhile partner, Petey, plenty busy.
In fact, I thought us Ritsches needed to keep him on retainer. With all our failing pipes, new fixtures and water heaters, and impossible clogs, Gene and I got to be pretty good friends.
Gene and I talked a lot about faith. He had been involved in the founding of a church years ago. He’d been fond of the pastor and consequently been hands-on in both building the church and leading it for awhile. But for some reason–I gathered because of inevitable church politics–he’d gotten discouraged and fallen away. He may have been disappointed in the pastor. I’m not sure. It was years ago, and he hadn’t attended since.