Obey the Voice of the Lord
Be attentive to the Lord at all times
I sat tapping, away on my keyboard. Hurray, the devotional was coming together! The hot summer sun shone through my bedroom window. I was living with my daughter, and one end of my bedroom served as office space.
Go and visit Bea!
The voice in my head pulled me away from my writing. There it was again. Go and visit Bea!
Is that you, Lord?
I got up and ran down the stairs, and called out to my daughter, who had her office in the basement, that I was going to visit Bea. My daughter knew about Bea. I would tell her stories of what had transpired between when I visited Bea.
We must obey God rather than men. (Acts 5: 29 NIV)
Bea was in her nineties, in fact, close to a hundred. I visited her regularly. We were both from England and did much reminiscing about the land of our birth. Mind you, Bea’s short-term memory was non-existent, and she would tell me the same tale repeatedly. But she was fine when I steered her into reminiscing mode.
Her long-term memory was great so we’d delight in discussing the daffodils in April — millions of them filling the hedgerows and woodlands — poems we had learned, and name the poets who wrote them.
I drove to the seniors’ residence where Bea lived, and as I entered the building I heard a woman’s voice in distressed tones, saying she was leaving.
I knew that voice. I veered to the right and went into the day room. There was Shirley, Bea’s daughter, coming toward me declaring she had had enough and was leaving. She looked at me and then said, “I’m sorry I can’t stay.” With that, she rushed out.
Bea came shuffling towards me with her walker. A nurse helped her along. “Oh, Mary, is that you?” she asked. She peered at me, straining to see. Her sight was almost gone.
“Yes, it’s me, what happened?” I could guess what had happened and suggested we sit down in the lounge and talk.
Once settled, Bea said, “How nice to see you, dear. How are you?” She went on to tell me her daughter had not visited for a long time.
“Bea,” I said, “I know you don’t realize it because your memory plays tricks on you, but Shirley was here a few moments ago.”
Her dear old wrinkled face expressed surprise. “Was she? I didn’t see her.”
There was no point in trying to take her back there. I said, “Remember, last time I visited and we were trying to recall the name of the poet who wrote Sea Fever?”
Her face lit up. “It was John Masefield, wasn’t it?”
I grinned. “Yes!” And back we went to our world of yesteryear to poets and woodlands and books of dear old England.
Tomorrow I would try to help Shirley understand.
And this is love: that we walk in obedience to his commands. (2 John 1:6, NIV)
*To respect the privacy of the people in this story names have been changed.
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