Go on, feel my breast!

This is a true story, written to describe an event that occurred during my time as a Baptist minister in Auckland, New Zealand.

I was never quite sure what kind of reception I’d receive from the different people I’d visit as minister of the church they attended then; being in the oldest part of the city of Auckland, New Zealand. Most of my calls were to elderly folk who I found entertaining in a variety of ways, for there was a kind of formula to follow, and I couldn’t proceed to the next call on my list until it had been completed. On a few occasions the pattern would take an unexpected twist; this is one of those.

The lady I visited that day was rather well-proportioned who carried all before her, so to speak. I was invited inside with the usual warm smile and breezy comments about the weather, the garden, her husband who was out at the time, and the cat which was too often in. We moved to her spacious lounge, I sank back on a well-cushioned seat and onto stage one of the formula.

We discussed my home and family; the church and its elderly members; her husband, one of the pillars of the church given to outbursts of suggestions for the improvement of the services; the buildings and the membership. An effervescent man, likeable, even when red in the face and dangerously close to bursting a blood vessel as he suggested the line that would be profitable for me and the church to take.

Stage two: tea and dainties time arrived and then with the things cleared away a little later, after a word of prayer together it was time to leave. I made my way to the front door and began my farewells and these were going well when I was stopped by her mentioning her health. Large-bosomed, warm-hearted, carefree lady that she was, she was however a little doubtful about a small lump that had appeared. A lump, my mind thought? She went on: ‘My doctor said it was nothing.’ She wasn’t sure though.

Stage three: ‘They don’t know everything do they’, she said softly, her face coming closer to mine, and, speaking in rather a husky voice came the question:’ What do you think?’ She looked at me, eyes smiling. She didn’t seem to be too worried I thought as she was feeling her left breast. Well part of it, she couldn’t possibly handle all of that at one go I thought. It’s there!’ she said, moving the wobbly item about with her fingers. ‘Not a big lump, but it’s there. Feel it!’  My heart thumped wildly; we’d been warned in our lectures at theological college that things of this nature might happen. We were standing on her front doorstep, clearly visible to the people passing on the main street. My mind filled with pictures of people stopping to watch; maybe they’d get ideas too! Maybe they’d be witnesses later at my trial. What was I to do?

She was smiling: ‘Go on, feel my breast. It’s alright. Just feel it!’ Then my hand seemed suddenly to have a mind of its own, for it did reach out and it did feel something. Whether it was the lump she meant, or thought she had I’ll never know. Thankfully she seemed satisfied with whatever it was I murmured to her about it. I’d complied with her wishes and I found myself walking down the street thinking to myself: ‘I’ve just been invited to touch her beast!’

You’ll be pleased to know that I heard no more about it. I did tell my wife later that day and she dissolved into laughter and fortunately I joined in too. It was too big a burden for me to carry around for the rest of my ministerial life. The lady and lump are both gone, some years ago now and you’ll be interested to know that I was never again asked: ‘What do you think?’ in such an open way again.

Dennis Crompton. © 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)