An older lady lives in my neighborhood. She is 72, but she acts much older. She doesn't smell particularly good and when she talks she refers to herself in the third person.
Tonight she calls me at 4:30 p.m. and asks me to take her to the grocery store. "Fifteen-twenty minutes tops," she says in a shaky voice. I tell her I'll need to take my kids to my Mom's house first, I'll check with her and then call back. I reluctantly ask my mother if she would mind. Of course she doesn't. So I drop my kids off down the street and head to pick her up.
This past Sunday we took her to church. She likes our church, and wants to go every Sunday. I usually call her at about 9:00 on Saturday nights to see if she'll be going with us. If she accepts my offer, I will be riding in the back seat, between my kids' car seats. I will chuckle a little as I observe my husband's demeanor as he entertains his passenger. He keeps focused straight ahead, gives an, "uh-huh, really?" every now and then, but doesn't so much as turn his head to visually address her, lest she might misunderstand his interest level.
My elderly friends' house is full of piles: piles of dishes, silverware, tupperware; piles of magazines, books and catalog's. She doesn't have a lot of friends and her daughter lives in Ohio. Our relationship began when I started ordering her vitamins for her. I soon became aware of her need and lack of family, and offered to mow her lawn, and every now and then would run her around town to pay her bills. I didn't mind helping her, and appreciated that she didn't call me too often. Our relationship has progressed to calls a few times a week--sometimes to run errands, other times just to chat. I have to be honest and say most times I am less than enthused about her phone calls. There is never a day that I want to help her, but I do anyway.
One Sunday our pastor told a story about his friend who was dying of cancer. She nudged me on the leg and said, "See, that's what I'm afraid of. The results of my liver tests came back and they think it could be cirrhosis of the liver." She didn't return for further testing, but she did ask to meet my pastor after the sermon and asked for prayer.
This past Sunday, she got a bloody nose while eating her doughnut and attempting to buy a Bible. I told Jeremy to stand by her while I went to get her some toilet paper. She cleaned her nose and asked me for another pastry. Soon after we strolled into the service and found our chairs (I had reserved seats in an easy to access row). She sits down and exhales loudly, takes a few minutes to situate her Bible, bulletin and coffee then says, "Oh yeah. This is nice. I like this. Oh boy." I stand and sing and Judy stays seated in her chair.
I love worship on Sunday mornings. It is probably my favorite part of church. But this Sunday my heart felt like it was going two opposite directions. As much as I wanted to sing with all my heart, I became very aware that much of my heart was burdened by the woman sitting next to me.
I want to make excuses for not loving her sometimes; my flesh attempts to find good reason for it too. I tell myself, she's not taken good care of herself; she's drank too much in the past; she's probably not been a good friend or mother and that's why she's so alone in her old age. Deep down I know God hasn't asked me to make those calls. God has placed her in my path and asked me to love her.
As I stood in church and sang, I heard the verse from 1 Corinthians in my head, "If I speak in tongues of men or angels but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal." That is what my worship would have been, if I had refused to love her the way God was asking me to. And so I opened up the resistant part of my heart. I told God I'd do whatever he wanted me to do, and I asked him to show me who she was.
An hour later we were driving home from church in our usual seating arrangement. Our stomachs leaped as Jeremy sped over some railroad tracks. "You know those tracks back there?" She says as she points a shaky finger towards the back seat, "That was where my Dad was killed. I was 19 years old." She starts to tell the story, which grabs all of our attention, but never quite completes it (whether it was too difficult a story or her apparent ADD I'm not sure). My daughter nudges me and wants more details. I tell her I don't know, and we are left with unanswered questions but softer hearts. We drop her off at home, I walk her to her door and she kisses me on the cheek before I leave.
At the grocery store today I found that I could hardly stop chuckling. She breathes through her nose and exhales loudly as she saunters through the store--holding the grocery cart like a walker. She mumbles to herself, "Aaah. Oh boy. You've got to... Oh dear. Oh boy." She sees a box of cereal and turns toward me, "Well now that ain't too bad. You ever tried that honey?" I want her to hurry, I want to return home before my husband does. But instead I help her shop and smile to myself as we walk through the store.
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