an angel named geri

or how a god-breathed call for hospitality rang my doorbell during nap time

Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.
Hebrews 13:2

expected, known (comfortable)

I don’t know how it happened, but there are holiday lawn decorations slowly being pulled out all over Spokane.

A few weeks ago in early October, I was still in short sleeves. My dahlias were raging. I was still shaving my legs semi-regularly. But we’ve passed spooky season, the saints have been remembered, and now the holiday hustle is starting to creep in.

We know what our holiday plans are. They are the same as last year. We will be home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas and I am so thankful for the slowness that this brings to us. The hibernative nature that comes over me is deep and velvety. I light candles, wrap our home in quilts, pour drinks that are warm, and the pace is slow. It is good. It’s comfortable. It’s expected, known, welcome.

unexpected, unknown (uncomfortable)

Thursday this week was particularly nasty. Bone cold and rainy. Sam had come home from preschool and collapsed shortly thereafter. I had just tucked him in for a nap when my doorbell rang.

Running out of Sam’s room, I was poised for an attack on the door to door salesperson I was sure was soliciting me for internet, roofing, windows, whatever. So imagine my surprise when I opened the door to an ancient little lady, cane in hand, clad in a Gerry rain jacket with a small plastic grocery bag in the other hand. She greeted me with hesitant hope and expectation in her eyes.

Hello. Is there any chore or task I could do for you to earn $20?

I looked around. There was no car, there was no one else. It was just this old woman.

It didn’t take me long to figure out what she really needed. Paper towels, bath tissue, paper plates, napkins, plastic cutlery. She knew what she needed and my heart ached. Where had she come from? Why wasn’t my phone chiming with the Amber alert I was sure this visit elicited?

I asked her to come inside while I searched for the only cash I had (a measly two bucks) and ran around my house gathering the other things I had that were on her list. After I came out with a roll of bath tissue and two bags, she looked at me with large eyes and said what we were both thinking.

I think I might need a ride home.

I’ve never loaded up an unknown stranger in my car, but this was an obvious exception. At this point we had introduced ourselves. Her name was Geri and she lived with another woman named Betty and Betty’s granddaughter and her great grandson. Both Geri and Betty are 86 years old.

six blocks

I got Geri home and helped her inside to a living room that brought tears to my eyes, both literal and metaphoric. Reader, I’m going to spare you the details, but after about 15 minutes of conversation and meeting the wheelchair bound Betty, I had to excuse myself as I felt a migraine forming. The smell in this stagnant and decaying old house was putrid.

These ladies were in a house I had driven past before. They were six blocks from my home. My comfortable, warm, clean, safe, apple-scented home.

I ran to Wal-Mart for the things Geri needed that I didn’t have at my home. Sitting in my car, I felt numb and bewildered.

What do I do God? What do I do now?

Betty had made it clear in the brief conversation we had that she didn’t want anyone in her home telling her how to live. But in almost the same breath, she told me about how garbage had been dumped in her backyard and how there were things in her basement she needed moved, how the landlord owed them money from a broken furnace from last year, how her granddaughter’s car wouldn’t start, how she wanted to sell some dressers, and how desperately she needed a couch.

I handed off the paper goods from Wal-Mart and left them my number.

Betty, I am not going to tell you how to run your home, but I’d love to help in some ways, if you’ll let me.

I can pay. If you get the trash out of the backyard, I can pay.

Ok, I will let you. I’ll be in touch.

Betty called me twice that evening. She told me about her grandkids, her daughter who had died nine months before, how she’d broken her pelvis and was in constant pain. She shared and shared and shared and I didn’t press for any of it. She handed it over willingly.

Before leaving, I thanked them both for welcoming me into their home and their lives. Geri looked up at me with her pale blue eyes and said something that will likely haunt me until my dying days.

Sometimes people come into your life and they change everything.

She might as well have been quoting the gospel. Truer words were never spoken.

from here

I drove my car six blocks back to the house and told David how I had spent Sam’s nap time. We walked around the neighborhood and I unpacked what came next. There was respecting Betty’s pride but also helping out with the things she showed interest in wanting help with.

Our neighborhood Bible study was that night (no coincidence) and I told them the story. Some other neighbors had met Geri—this was not her first walk around the neighborhood to earn something for her household. That night, someone offered the use of their truck and strong arms to help haul garbage. The next day, another friend offered soup she had made a big batch of while someone else sent me a marketplace listing of a $50 couch—for Betty and Geri? Maybe. Yes. I don’t know. I’ll ask.

There’s so much more to this story. I didn’t divulge even half of it here. And make no mistake, this is not a story where I am patting myself on the back or showing how my small, insignificant Wal-Mart run was anything more than the desperation pounding in my head and heart being acted out.

I did not ask for Geri to knock on my door, but I did answer it. She blew out all the metaphoric candles and upset the cozy I was working so hard to establish.

I know that Geris and Bettys are out there. In theory. They’ve always been talked about in third person, referenced at a distance, usually by people who were already working alongside the poor, elderly, disabled. Let those people love them. Let that be their ministry. I have one already. I’m doing my thing. This is my best.

No it isn’t.

I don’t know where things go from here. I’ll likely take soup to them on Saturday and ask my neighbor with the truck if he has time to help David and I haul some garbage away from their yard. We’ll see how it goes.

What do you do when the theoretical widow knocks on your door?

But Lord, haven’t I done enough? I adopted a foster child. Wasn’t I obedient? Didn’t I do what you asked?

Hardly.

Always,
Emily

P.S. Pray for us as we lean into this discomfort and figure out how to best love Betty, Geri, and their household.