Disappearing Act

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“Where’s Cameron? Anybody seen Cameron?” The Ashbrook High J.V. basketball team was stowing gear under the bus, ready to travel to a rare Saturday afternoon game. Coach was getting a headcount. A second check and still no Cameron. I wasn’t worried. I knew where I was.

It’s been my habit to disappear at times, if not physically, at least mentally. My mother used to praise my capacity to entertain myself. She could give me the cardboard tube from a roll of paper towels, scissors, colored construction paper, crayons, and glue, and I would sit quietly on the floor in the den or at the dining room table and disappear into myself. I’m sure it was a great relief to Mom to get some quiet time.

I remember sitting in class in the sixth grade after we returned from the library with books we had been allowed to check out. Like my mother, I’m guessing my favorite teacher Ms. Page wanted a little “me time,” so she told us to get out a library book and read. The next thing I knew, Ms. Page called my name from far away. Slowly I swam back to consciousness, looked around, and realized all the other students had out their math assignments. I had disappeared into my book.

My most embarrassing example of getting lost is from the time of my first call as the pastor of a little church in Concord, NC. Since it was my first church, I constantly feared that I would disappoint my congregation. Consequently, I worked hard to be available to members, including frequent visits to the homebound members.

One of my favorite homebound members was Lettie. Her house was neat as a pin, even though numerous health challenges plagued her. When I left after each visit, she would tell me, “One of these days, I’m going to be strong enough to fix you lunch.” One day as I left, she took my hand and said, “I would like to invite you for lunch next Tuesday at 12 sharp. I think I’m finally up to it.” I was pleased and left her with a smile and the words, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

I took Mondays off in those days, and Tuesday was the day I started doing research for the sermon I would preach the following Sunday. That particular Tuesday, I had been hard at work all morning. Eventually I stood up from my desk to stretch and go to the bathroom. I checked my watch and, to my utter dismay, I saw it was after 2 p.m.! I raced to Lettie’s house, pounded on the door, and woke her up from a nap. Shame-faced, I hung my head and apologized to her for being a no-account bum. True to form, she said, “Oh, that’s alright. I wrapped yours up for you.”

I didn't hear it when my basketball coach asked where I was, but a teammate told me about it later.
“Where’s Cameron?” Coach asked. Someone piped up, “I think I heard him say he was going to be a clown in the parade today.” That’s where I was—down on Main Street, red nose and all. I’d gotten lost in the prospect of being a clown in the parade that Saturday afternoon and had forgotten all about the basketball game. I’m told Coach just smiled and shook his head. Where else would I be?

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