The smell of her small, block home reminded me of my great-grandmother's house when I was growing up: damp, moldy, just a hole-in-the-wall kind of place. She's 85 years old. The aged skin on her face tells of the thousands of hours, decades of life, she spent working in the fields with her father. Her tiny frame reminds me of the frailty of life...how we're made of the dust of this earth. Sitting there in her recliner after I leave...she will be alone in her little block home. With thoughts and regrets of the past running through her mind...she will sit there until someone else is kind enough to grace her door.
I wonder how many of the widows and widowers in our churches and communities feel a terrible loneliness? I wonder how many of them feel like they're forgotten, or that they're of no use? I wonder how much of that is our fault because we seldom take the time to show them we care? Somewhere, there's a little, old lady waiting for you to walk through her door. God knows where she is...do you?
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