My hands tore open the box and began to methodically empty the contents. Shoved into the moving box without proper packaging was the small basket with the blue hand-made beads. My eyes welled with tears as I was sucked back in time.
I was barely eight years old when I first met Mrs. Winslow – Mrs. Lovey Winslow. She was 70. Little did I know the life-long impact this woman would have on me. I spent only three years with her before we moved. She was what I always imagined a grandmother would be like. When she hugged, it felt like her full body enveloped me both outside and inside my heart – she was warm, patient, and caring. She taught me about life; she taught me how to vacuum without power; how to run a pedal sewing machine; how to tat, crochet and knit; how to iron without a cord; how to plant and reap; how to eat corn while sitting in the rows on the ground; how to make and bottle dietetic root beer when no business did; and how to love another human being. She taught me how to have compassion; how to doctor wounds without traditional medicine; how to be a kid and at the same time how to be industrious; and how to be a help to others. She died about a year after I last saw her – just a few days before I posted my last letter to her. My dog had died. I knew she would understand the pain that gripped my childlike heart. Shamu the whale at Sea World died that year, too. Funny how a kid’s mind blends all the deaths together.
She had given me that little basket to remember her by – and now it was crushed, broken and useless. That basket traveled with me through many, many moves – across state lines – across the mountains, through deserts and valleys. I cherished it because it represented so much to me. I had grown to love Mrs. Winslow – the first person outside my family that I ever cared for. My first relationship outside of myself and the small world I knew. I was aware that others existed but I didn’t love them. Compassion rose up in me as I begged my mom who didn’t drive to take my dad’s car to get Mrs. Winslow her insulin when she accidentally dropped and broke her last vial; and I watched Mrs. Winslow bring a bedside pitcher and basin to care for my mom when she couldn’t get out of bed. And now the only part of her I had held onto – the only part of my pretend grandma – was ruined. I cried over her loss for the first time since I was 12.
I originally met Mrs. Winslow on October 31, and I was doing what kids did in those days – knocking on strangers’ doors knowing the reward would be a treat. Mrs. Winslow invited the entire group of us – about ten – into her home. Obediently we went – she filled our bags with coins, oranges, her homemade popcorn balls, and she filled my heart with that “outside myself” compassion. She had been widowed recently and now lived alone. She invited all of us to come back and see her anytime. As far as I am aware, I am the only child that took her seriously. Her casual invite was taken as an offer from a queen or the President’s wife. I gladly went back – again and again. During this time, my mother was bedridden with something my child mind didn’t understand. So my days, outside of school, were filled with the wisdom and love of a lady I barely knew, but came to love. She would be the first person I would lose in life. She would leave a hole – though I didn’t know it then. As I write this, I cry. I weep. I grieve. Not only because I miss her and my own parents, but because I don’t know if she knew Jesus as Lord and Savior. I don’t know where she is spending eternity. I didn’t know Jesus personally – didn’t know about sharing him – until she was long gone. I didn’t know her children, or grandchildren or great grandchildren. I wish I did. I would tell them about her – her life accomplishments as a nurse during the war, as a co-developer of the current humane straight jacket used today, as a tender loving person, as a roofer at 72, as a planter, sower and reaper all her days, as a generous wise woman. But she may have lacked one thing – Jesus.
So the tears run down my face not for the loss of this wonderful woman, but for her eternity that remains unknown to me. I wish I could find her family to ask about her faith. My humanness wants to believe because she meant so much to me, because she was so good to me, and because she taught me so much, that God would let her into heaven. But the truth of the matter is, without believing that Jesus Christ was God, manifest as a man, who died in her place and rose again to be with the Father in heaven – there is no way for Mrs. Winslow to be in heaven. The Word is clear on the pathway to eternity – one way only – Jesus.
Jesus said to him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me. John 14:6
- Who has made an impact on your life?
- Do they know Jesus as their Lord and Savior?
- If not, can you find the courage to share the truth of the Gospel – to ensure that you have done everything to guarantee they spend eternity with Him in heaven?
Lord, you told us to share the truth of the Gospel locally and across the globe. May no one we know not enter into Your kingdom because we lack courage and gave into fear. Prepare the hearts of those we know and those we meet who haven’t received Jesus into their hearts as Lord and Savior of their life. Give us a mind to know that it is our charge as Your children; give us the heart of compassion that would seek to see those we know join You in eternity; give us strength to do it and not give up; give us Spirit-breathed words to speak that will cut to the very soul; and let us reap a harvest of living souls for Your kingdom. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
- In loving memory of Mrs. Lovey Winslow
- Born on March 4, 1897 – Died in Salem, Oregon in April 1971