God Works Through the Unlikely
© 2007 by Jean-Christine LeGendre

Mrs. Humble. I never knew her first name. This little white-haired lady crossed my path for about twenty-minutes a dozen years ago, but I’ve never forgotten her.

I’ve finally figured out why.

All those years ago, prolonged illness forced my grandmother to relocate to Tampa. The move took place over the Christmas holiday, which required a layover in a transitional assisted-living facility.

Night had fallen by the time I arrived to welcome her to town, but I found a side entrance unlocked and the facility surprisingly busy. Patients milled through the halls in wheelchairs, behind walkers or with canes. As I made my way to the elevators and the third floor, I came across a lady with tufty white hair and a smile that stopped me from halfway down the hall. She wore a faded nightdress and a neat black shoe. Only one. She was an amputee.

I returned her smile as she angled her wheelchair to force me to stop.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she said. “Will you take me?”

Not exactly what I expected, but after helping out during my grandmother’s illness, I managed not to miss a beat. “Let’s see if we can find someone to help you.”

She nodded agreeably, so I circled the wheelchair, grabbed the handles and wheeled her in the direction I hoped led to help. We found a nurses’ station, but no nurses. Instead elderly folks milled around the desk as if they’d taken over. One man had propped his cane against a chair and had taken a seat beside some sort of monitoring device. From behind the desk a woman with steely curls and dazzling red lipstick scowled as if visiting hours were long over. I asked the new regime where the staff had gone and received vague replies about patients’ rooms and parties.

“I need to use the bathroom,” my new charge reminded.

Clearly I needed alternate plan B. “Where’s your room?”

She shrugged and gave me a big smile.

No problem. The doors had nameplates. “I’m Jeanie. And you are?”

Her smile widened, and she gave another shrug.

Now I was in trouble. So I did what I always do when anxious, I babble. Heading back down the hall, I speculated about where the staff might be while trying to drown out worry about whether or not my grandmother would actually survive a week here. I wandered down one hall then another, hoping a nurse would ride to the rescue. Or my little lady would suddenly remember who she was. But I couldn’t abandon her with out at least finding a public restroom.

Then God tossed me a lifeline. It came in the form of a prosthesis, which I glimpsed propped against a night table through the open doorway of a patient’s room.

Left leg. Neat black shoe.

I glanced down at my little lady--right leg, neat black shoe--then at the door’s name plate.

“Looks like we’re here, Mrs. Humble.”

I eventually made it upstairs to my grandmother’s room, where I learned the facility had been hosting a Christmas party. Staff members had been popping in and out of the break room between duties all night.

My grandmother moved on a few days later, and I never saw Mrs. Humble again. But there was something about her I’ve never been able to forget. Her smile? The circumstances of our meeting? Admittedly, I don’t get stellar moments all that often and looking back, I was glad I’d taken the high road and helped out. I’ve never been sure.

Until this morning when a thought-provoking homily helped me understand that I hadn’t taken the high road on that day long ago, but had acted out of love for my fellow man. It wasn’t any big deal. It wasn’t anything I had a right to be proud of. I simply did what Jesus calls us all to do.

It took a dozen years, but I finally get it. Thank you, Mrs. Humble.