HUMBLE

It was a year when I was speaking at numerous women's retreats, and this one would be memorable. Not because my driving instructions were so vague that I started down a lonely road that only got worse—and with no place to turn around, I had to gingerly back up for hundreds of feet. Finally I got to the real retreat site (which was a right turn at a certain tree, and I had gone left), where dinner was being served. Coming into the busy, buzzing dining hall, I noticed one empty seat, and decided to sit there.

I introduced myself to the woman on my right, sitting quietly amidst the retreaters' chatter. She said her name was Dagmar, and her name and accent led to our next conversation thread about her roots in Germany. My paternal great grandparents had come from Germany. I guessed her to be mid to late sixties, Now a single woman, she was working as a maid for one of the large motels in a nearby Bavaria-themed tourist town. She had two adult children, a son in Washington and a daughter in California.

When the retreat ended, she said she wanted to keep in touch and pray for me. She also gave me a fabric heart she had made during the retreat's craft time. She asked that it remind me to please pray for her adult children. So we exchanged addresses. Once or twice a year she'd write or call me, reminding me of her prayers and asking what else to pray for. She later moved from our area, but sought me out when she passed through our town en route to see her son, who lived in a rural area about an hour's drive north. Later, no longer driving, she asked if I'd meet her at the town's bus station for a little visit when she had a layover between bus schedules. Her letters grew less frequent, then finally stopped. My last letter to her, about a year ago, was returned by the woman who had moved into her apartment. She had no idea where Dagmar moved to.

The end of April I saw Dagmar's name in the local newspaper's death notices. There would no service. Nothing said about burial. She was 88 (she would have been 89 on July 21). Though  perhaps not celebrated at death like most, she was surely known and cherished by the Lord whom she served through prayers and witness in her everyday life.

I was reminded of famous words woven into a web by the fictional Charlotte the spider in a 1952 children's book by E.B. White. Charlotte used every bit of her spider ability to reach out to a humble pig named Wilbur, She wove in her web above his pen these uplifting adjectives: “some pig,” “terrific,” “radiant,” and “humble.” The mystery words stunned his community, and saved him from becoming bacon.

“Some pig” didn't fit Dagmar, although the other words, plus “some special lady” would. Something else she said one time pierced my heart. She remarked that she was surprised when we first met how I sat by her and started a conversation. Her experience in other retreats was that “the speaker” hung out with the organizers. They didn't sit with “ordinary folks” like her. Ouch.

So, Dagmar, I celebrate you. The Lord smiled on your humble, praying life. See you at the table—God's table—in Glory.

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In thinking about godly women, I remembered a blog I wrote some years ago. You might enjoy reviewing its comparisons:

Jeanne Zornes: A Tale of Three Women